Say You'll Remember Me
by RantingSalad
Summary: "Say you'll remember me even when I'm gone." The words burn in her chest and threaten to crawl their way up her throat. Stubbornly, she bites her tongue and keeps her mouth shut. There's no point in asking for miracles.
1. Prologue

**I'm tentatively rating this as T now, but I'll change it to M if I get enough complaints, mostly due to language in later chapters. I don't own anything except the plot and any OCs. Enjoy!**

* * *

On Thistle, the rain is a wonderful shade a purple when it falls. Watching it is an experience in and of itself. It only rains about a total of ten days per year—five hundred and twelve earth days in total—but when it does, it pours. The local populations have a festival devoted to it, and people from three star systems over travel just to experience it. Artisans will wait the entire year just to have their crafts dyed by the rain, and poets and singers have written enough material on it to fill an entire section of a library.

He's come a little early this time around. The clouds above are dark violet. They threaten to burst and let the rain fall at any minute, but just not quite yet. The party is already starting—he can hear the cheers and echoing string instruments from the city square. Children run past, their parents yelling at them _slow down, the festival's not going anywhere! You'll trip and ruin your clothes before The Washing!_

Besides the food and the music and the art, The Washing is what people come to Thistle for. Its full name is The Washing Away of a Year's Toil. The children dance first, then pick out older and older members of the crowd to join in. Everyone starts out dressed in white, but the rain dyes their clothes to revel the intricate patterns hidden. It's supposed to symbolize renewal and reawakening, starting again and forgiving all the wrongdoing of the past year.

The Doctor thinks he'd have to dance for the entire ten days if he wants to erase even a fragment of all his sins. Right now, he can't even muster up the energy to get up, much less dance. His body aches and his bones feel brittle and weak. He feels like an old man despite his face.

"Doctor?"

He looks down to see a girl. Not a local—she lacks the markings and the three studs on her forehead that all Thisians bear. She's also not dressed the part for someone who plans to take part in the festival. Her clothes are dark and tightfitting, and the fabrics come from somewhere and sometime far away. Not to mention the shockingly pure white shade of her hair and the umbrella haloing her.

"Yes? How do you know who I am?"

Her face does this complicated thing that he isn't sure even qualifies as a proper expression. He catches her lips thinning slightly as her jaw tightens, and her right eye gives the barest of twitches. She looks away so he can't pick apart the look in her eyes. As soon as it appears, the reaction is gone, so fast he almost thinks he's imagined it. She smiles down at him and it's a cocky smile, curved more to one side and showing the hint of teeth. The umbrella spins a little above her head, making the design of petals look like they're actually falling.

"A man of your repute should be used to being recognized."

He can't tell if she's mocking him or not. In fact, he can't really make much of anything about this girl. She looks young, but he of all people knows that an appearance can betray actual age. This girl could easily be a threat, chosen because people are idiots and tend to underestimate those who look young. "Don't tell me you're a fan," he says back, hoping to coax out a more revealing response.

The girl looks positively amused by his accusation. "No. Though I supposed you could call me a follower."

He can feel his interest drying out. He bets she feels so clever, singling herself apart from the rest. If only she knew how many people have tried that one before. "Not interested."

"But you haven't even heard what I have to say yet." Oddly, she doesn't look very putout or angry.

"Don't care. Not interested."

She laughs. "You never do change, do you?"

And that strikes a nerve. He doesn't know this girl and she sure as hell doesn't know him. Whatever stories she's heard, whatever skewed portrayal of him she has in her head, it doesn't give her the right to assume anything.

If anything, the glare he sends her earns him a nod of approval. He grits his teeth and tries not to feel like a dog that's just been tricked into performing. "No, I meant that as a good thing," she says before he can properly chew her out.

"How did you mean it as a good thing?"

"Constants are memorable," she says with a shrug. "Your face and voice change, but you're still the Doctor."

That gets him to pause. He hasn't been as discreet as he likes to think, but while he gives out his name readily, there aren't many people who know that he's a Time Lord. Most of the places he goes don't even know what a Time Lord is, much less that he can change his face. This girl might be more troublesome than he originally thought if she's figured that out on her own.

"What do you want," he asks.

"It's not about what I want, I'm just the messenger. You might wanna swing by Earth soon. Say, late twentieth century?"

He's on his feet before he knows it and in her face. She's a few good inches shorter than him, which gives him an excellent advantage in glowering. "What've you done? If you've hurt anyone—"

She doesn't back down or flinch away. "Like I said, I'm just the messenger. I haven't done anything."

"Who are you?"

There's a rumble in the distance—a drum roll. That's all the warning he gets before the sky opens up. There's no light trickle, no warning drops, just pouring rain drenching him near instantly. The clouds are so dark they're nearly black, but the rain is a pretty lilac around him. By the time he looks back down, he's forgotten why he's stood up in the first place. The festivities are even louder as the celebration goes into full swing. The Washing will be starting soon, and that's what he came for.

He hurries to the town square, not wanting to waste the trip. He'll party of a few days, maybe even the entire ten, and then he'll be off again. Maybe he'll swing by Earth. It's been a while since he last thought about it, but he's feeling nostalgic for some reason.

* * *

A girl twirls her umbrella as she walks in the opposite direction, headed to the space docks.

"Platform One? Really?" He blinks in surprise at the girl who asks. Rose is asleep because humans are silly and need so much rest, but Doctor felt like having a drink.

Well, that's only partially true. He hates the taste of alcohol, all kinds, but once in awhile he wants the atmosphere of a bar, so he orders Kerbonen cola and pretends to be a noir detective. It helps that he's got the face for brooding this time, though he's not exactly dressed the part. The idea of wearing a suit makes him want to shake his head and go _yuck_. He's worn enough suits in the past. Besides, he doesn't think he could pull off dapper in this body. Maybe the next one.

But back to the girl. The fact that she's been allowed into the bar in the first place speaks to the sort of place he's in since she doesn't look old enough to drink by the standards of any planet in this system. She's holding a cup of something that he doesn't think is alcohol since it makes the same popping sound of his own drink, but he could be wrong. The look she levels him is full of exasperation.

"Sorry? Do I know you?"

She makes a face that screams _ugh!_ and takes the seat next to him. Her completely white hair is pulled back, and cute star earrings dangle down. It makes her look younger, and he doesn't miss the way some of the other patrons eye her. The Doctor's caught between warning her and leaving. He doesn't think she's a prostitute, but he also makes a note not to come back to this bar again. Probably after leaving a tip for the police.

"Taking a human to Platform One on her first trip? You really have no tact, do you?" He feels his defenses go way, way up. How does she know that? Better yet, how does she know him? He's positive that he's never seen her before. "Oh, relax. If I was gonna try something, I'd do it before I got your attention."

He grabs her arm, not caring that it jostles her so that her drink spills over the edge. She glares at him and uses her free hand to grab a napkin. "Who are you? What are you?"

"Tired," she says, dabbing lightly. "I just spent the past forty hours negotiating with the Tree of Cheem on _someone's_ behalf so they wouldn't take out a bounty on his head." She pulls away and places an order of food with the bartender. He doesn't even look up as he grunts in response, yelling back to the cook rudely.

"Why would you do that?"

"You know, I started asking myself that same question around hour twenty-eight when I was slogging through Gawakushi Salamander guts."

"What?"

She rolls her eyes and takes another drink of her cola. "They wanted your head for getting their princess killed. I gave them something they wanted more. Not that hard to put together."

He has so many questions. Why is the most prominent. Why would she do that, why her, and why for him? There's also how. The Gawakushi Salamander has been terrorizing the Forests of Cheem for nearly a decade. Is this girl seriously suggesting that she's killed it?

Her food arrives, the aroma heavy with salt and basil. "This guy bothering you," the bartender asks. The Doctor feels affronted. She's the one who started the conversation with him, not the other way around.

"We're good," she says, digging in. Mr. Brute grunts again, eyeing the Doctor before walking over to the other side of the bar to serve someone else.

"Who are you," the Doctor asks again. He feels wrong-footed and off-balance, and he doesn't like it.

The girl pauses. She's already put a considerable dent in her food, which he thinks says more about how hungry she is than the quality of it. She has a wry smile on her lips. He wants to complain. If anyone deserves to feel dissatisfied, it's him. "Neutral third party. Well, I say neutral…" She sets her fork down and wipes her mouth. "Bit of advice. Next time stick to Earth. Your girl'll have an easier time adjusting."

He nearly chokes, sputtering as he tries to begin explaining all the things wrong with that remark. "Rose is— Rose is not 'my girl!'" They're friends. He can say that now that she knows about the Time War, but there's nothing remotely romantic between them. "And how do you know her anyway?" He's only just started traveling with her. This last trip was more of a test run to see how they'd fit together.

"Just trust me on this," she says.

He thinks back to how Rose reacted to the aliens on Platform One. Sure, he probably could have prefaced their trip with a bit of an intro, but there wasn't always time for that. Maybe it is best to stick around Earth and uninhabited planets, just until she's a little more used to everything. He doesn't want to scare her off.

Later, Mr. Brute tells him his tab is already paid for. It draws out a curious frown. Who would pay for his tab? He doesn't remember talking to anyone and no one in the bar looks like the generous type. There's an empty plate and cup beside him—maybe the person who sat there paid for him?

Curious, but not all that interesting. It's only a bar tab after all, it's hardly like he owes a life debt. In any case, he should be getting back to the TARDIS if he wants time to wash off the smell from the bar. It won't do to face Rose like this.

He'll probably take her back to Earth for their next trip. Maybe they'll go back in time, somewhere with lots of other humans so she won't freak out about aliens. He thinks Earth suits her better, anyway, and he doesn't mind sticking around it for a while.

* * *

He feels faraway from himself and intangible, like a swirling mass of clouds in the shape of a man. He manages to keep a brave face for Martha, but as soon as she's gone, so is the last of his strength. The TARDIS is floating in the Time Vortex and the current is slow so he doesn't have to worry about getting swept away, but all that does is free more of his mind to wallow. They're alive. They survived. The Time War, Satellite Five, not even getting sucked into the Void could stop the Daleks. He's lost so much and somehow they still survive.

Dalek Sec was the only redeeming part of it. If a Dalek, and not just any Dalek, but a member of the Cult of Skarro, could change, then he had hope. Things could change; maybe they'd finally have peace instead of being locked in this never ending battle full of loss. But then Dalek Sec had been killed by his own, and the Doctor's hope died with him.

He's going to bounce back. He will keep on keeping on, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. That's how he always was. How he hopes to always be. But it feels so hard to try right now that he's alone again. He's not really alone; Martha's just a few rooms away. But a few rooms feels like an entire galaxy.

There's a knocking at the door, and he's almost opening it before his brain catches up to his body. There's a knocking at the door. A knocking at the door of the TARDIS. The TARDIS which is in flight in the Time Vortex. There shouldn't be anyone around to knock. There shouldn't be anyone capable of it. What's a person doing in the Time Vortex anyway?

"Oh, come on," the person complains through the wood. "It's boiling out here! I'm about to pass out from heatstroke!"

He opens the door and in walks a girl. A young girl. Her white hair is plastered to the sides of her face and her neck, skin covered in a faint sheen of sweat. She gives him a dismissive "thanks" and walks further inside, leaning against one of the columns. Inside the console room it feels like a cool spring day.

He lets the door shut behind her, blocking out the unbearable heat. Numb with shock is a good descriptor for how he's feeling now. So is confused as hell. He can't help but look back and forth between the girl and the now closed entryway. "Wow, it's like you've never seen someone use a door before," she says with a raised eyebrow.

"How did you— where did you— who—"

Her lips tick down ever so slightly at that last aborted question. They're straight and neutral again when he blinks, wondering if he's having some sort of grief hallucination. "Nope," she says like she heard his question. "You're not seeing things."

"What?"

"Well, you are," she amends, grinning. "But only the things you're supposed to."

"What?"

"Me, I mean. I'm real—you're not hallucinating or dreaming."

"What?"

"Wow you really like that word. Ooh, thanks." She grabs the mostly full glass of water Martha set down some time ago and forgot about. The TARDIS has a habit of preserving food, so it's still fresh, ice clinking as she downs it in one go. She grabs her head and makes a face. "Oh, that was a bad idea. Brain freeze."

He doesn't know what to think. A stranger has just barged into his home. Not only that, but she acts comfortable and at ease with him when he's sure he's never met her before. There's nothing, not even a comment about the TARDIS, to suggest that she's the least bit taken aback by a box that's bigger on the inside.

They look at each other for a while before the girl sets down the glass. "Well, this is awkward."

He wants to yell that she's the one who made it so, but he's afraid it'll come out a little too hysteric. "I'm the Doctor," he says instead, because it's his name, his constant, and right now it's also his clutch for balance.

"Yup," she says.

"And you are…?"

The sound of a bell cuts her off before she can reply. He's not sure if he would've gotten a straight answer anyway. She had this look in her eye, and he knows that look. Not just disappointment, but resigned disappointment. The sort of resigned people get when they tell themselves not to expect something, and when it doesn't happen they discover that some subconscious part of them hoped anyway.

But he could be wrong. It was only there for a fraction of a second.

She glances at the inside of her wrist, eyes widening when she reads the time. "Late," she says, the change from seated to standing so quick it's as if she teleported. "I'm late. I'm so, so late. And so dead. I'm dead."

He can't tell if she's serious or not, and it's rather alarming. But she heads back to the door, none too happy about having to brave the heat again before he can put together enough words to ask a question, any question. "Right. Thanks for the drink. You owed me one, so I guess we're even now."

"Wait," he tries to say.

"Nope, no time. Gotta run. Or skip, actually, but semantics. Anyway, only stopped by to tell you something."

"Tell me what?"

"Don't forget to believe," she says cryptically, typing her hair back.

"Believe in what? That doesn't tell me anything!"

He's suddenly by the entrance, alone since Martha's off in her room to sleep off their last adventure, and wondering why he has the door open. He shuts them quickly. It's boiling outside, even for a Time Lord.

He hums a Journey song under his breath—the words escape him at the moment. Something about streetlights and strangers. A strange good mood lifts his spirits despite the less than stellar outcome of their trip to Manhattan. Then again, he can't say that it's a complete failure. Lazlo survives, the Hooverville disappearance were stopedp, and he has proof now that even his greatest enemies aren't irredeemable.

Not bad, really, when he thinks about it.

* * *

A hand stretches down and grabs his just before he clears the edge. His shoulder pulls in its socket, and the sudden sharp pain makes him wonder for a moment if falling instead really was so bad. Sure, the landing would kill him, but at least that would be instantaneous.

Painfully, he's pulled up until he can swing his other hand over the edge. It takes more effort than he likes, but he's finally on solid ground and not a pancake so he counts it as a win. He turns over to thank his savior, expecting the page who tipped him off on this little amoral gig. Instead he sees a young girl with hair so white it's nearly blinding after so long in the dark.

"Really," she asks, slightly out of breath and leaning against the wall. "I leave for five minutes, and you find yourself a suicide mission? Mars wasn't that bad!"

There are so many things wrong with those words, starting with the fact that he's never seen her before in his life. Also, this isn't a suicide mission, he has—had, now—a perfectly clever exit plan and it isn't his fault that it quite literally blew up in his face. Also, how does this girl know about what happened on Mars?

"I only know the basics," she says, and it does nothing to make things clearer. "But I know enough to know that while you screwed up, you didn't screw up that badly."

He wants to argue. Not only did he interfere where he was never supposed to, he broke the laws of time, tried to rewrite a fixed point, and drove a woman to kill herself. It's plenty bad by anyone's standards.

The girl winces like she's realized her mistakes. "Okay, so it was bad. But you didn't break the universe. And it's definitely not worth killing yourself over. Learn from it and move on."

"It's that simple to you," he asks. The words come out a little more bitter than he intends, but it's too late to take back now. "Who are you, anyway? How do you know me?"

The girl stands and half-turns away. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Worse, you wouldn't remember."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing." She turns back and her face is carefully blank. An alarm goes off in the distance. He estimates about ninety more seconds until the guards storm in. "Look, I'm not saying you have to get over it right away. Take your time; really think it over to drive the lesson home. Just do it somewhere that won't get you killed."

She has a fair point. It isn't really fair or helpful to anyone for him to be so distracted when he promised to help. Life and the universe are hardly ever far, but the Doctor tries to be when he can.

There's banging on the sealed door down the corridor. He and the girl both run, trying to put as much distance between them and the guards with pointy weapons as possible. Absently, he notes that she's leading him back towards the lab in the dungeon. "What does it matter to you?"

They slam the wooden doors shut behind them. The sonic is useless, but together they barricade it with what they have. It won't hold forever, but if they're lucky, it'll slow their pursuers down long enough.

"It matters," she says. "That's all you need to know."

She stops at the entrance to the stairs. The air here hums with electricity. The design of the antigravs are sophisticated, but the mechanics powering them are crude. It's only a matter of time before they fail and the castle goes crashing back down to Earth. It's a major catastrophe unless he can safely land them, not to mention all the cows that need rescuing.

"What are you doing?"

She pulls off one of the decorative spears from the wall. It's nearly twice her height, but she wields it like she actually knows what to do with it. "Someone has to hold them back," she says. The sound of footsteps gets louder as the guards draw closer.

"You? With that?"

"Do I tell you how to do your job," she shoots back. The doors budge out as something slams into them, but the lock holds. For now. "I'll be fine. No one will be if we don't land safely."

She makes a good point. He wants to argue, partly just for the sake of it, and partly because he's genuinely worried. Stranger or not, she's helping, and that's more than he can say for most of the other people in the castle.

It's the closest call he's had in a while, and that's _really_ saying something, but he manages to land the castle near enough to where it took off from that no one'll notice. Probably. Strangely, the castle guards are all passed out when he leaves the dungeon. He doesn't think the landing is that rocky, but bully them and lucky him.

The stolen cows are no help the entire time, but they're grateful to be back in the fields and farms they belong on.

* * *

Rose is dancing out on the floor and the Doctor can't help but feel out of place. There's a girl drinking with Jack at one of the tables, and he sincerely hopes that flirting is just friendly because she has to be younger than Rose. Or maybe she just looks it. Her white hair actually makes her fit in with the other clubbers, though she's dressed more conservatively than most of them.

He looks over at the bodies Rose is half-writhing with, then back over at Jack. There's no decision to be made, really, so he slinks over and tries to ignore pretty much everything about his surroundings. He's only here to placate the others. Jack would be find on his own, but he's promised Jackie to look after Rose and he's not about to leave her in a Lunar Colony club on her own. The people are mostly human, but there are all sorts of drugs and other questionable substances, and Rose has no built-up tolerance.

The music is near deafening. The bass makes him feel like the floor is shaking. How can Rose and Jack like this, then complain about his piloting skills? The journey from Raxacoricofallapatorious was even one of the smoother rides.

"Hello." Up close, he can see the pattern of silver swirls running along the sides of the girl's face. Her neck and arms are similarly decorated. The temporary markings glow under the strobe lights thanks to the moon dust mixed in them. There's a sly smile on her face and he can see why Jack has spent the last twenty minutes talking to her; she's exactly his type. Well, pretty much everything alive and sentient is Jack's type, but her especially so.

He wonders if he should say something on Rose's behalf. He's not sure what's going on between her, Jack, and Mickey, and where exactly he falls in line in everything. It feels like one of those times when no one says what they really want to and everyone pretends not to notice. He certainly doesn't care who Rose dates so long as she's happy. Same with Jack. As for himself, well, he's not looking for a relationship like that.

"This is the man I was talking about," Jack begins with, and that's either a very good or very bad thing. He's prepared to run if it comes down to it, but he'd hate to ruin the night for the others.

The girl leans back and grins. "Your friend's been telling me quite a story. Something about nearly cracking the Earth open like an egg."

It feels like he's missed something. There's something about the way she talks—is that a hint of amused disapproval he detects? He hopes she's not a Time Agent or some sort of bounty hunter.

"Ah, but did he get to the part where everything worked out in the end?"

"Way to steal my thunder," Jack jokes easily.

The Doctor isn't sure when he decided to take a seat, but now he's joined their table and it feels weird to stand up again. The atmosphere is easy and he can almost ignore the nonsensical music. The girl eyes the two of them, but her gaze doesn't feel objectifying. "I love a good story," she says. "Tell me more?"

They finish telling her about Margaret, and then they keep talking. Jack tells her about some of his former cons. He's careful, of course, to word everything so it sounds legal. The amused glint in the girl's eyes says she doesn't mind playing along but knows better. He thinks Jack knows that he's not fooling anyone either, but as long as no one gets hurt and there's no proof, there's no harm in pretending.

The Doctor surprises himself by sharing a few stories of his own. They talk about how he and Jack met, and that brings up Rose so he tells that story too. If the girl is surprised that they're not alone, she doesn't show it. In fact, when Rose joins them for a break from dancing, she's inviting towards the other girl, asking for her version of some of their exploits.

It doesn't escape the Doctor's notice that the girl doesn't reveal much about herself in turn. When Rose finally drags Jack away to dance with her, they leave the two of them alone at the table. The club is far from empty, but it's late enough that most of the traffic is egress instead of entry. The DJ uses the lessening crowds as an opportunity to change the music up a bit. It's no longer just songs heavy on the base with beats that all mix together as one. She plays a few slow songs intermittently, and even some experimental stuff that doesn't sound too bad.

"I never did catch your name," he says causally.

Instead of offering it, the girl looks straight at him and says, "I never gave it." At least she's not denying it, but then, it begs the question as to _why_ she hasn't introduced herself yet. He wonders if Jack knows.

"What's your name?"

She hums. "How 'bout I give you a hint, and if you guess right, I'll tell you."

"Alright," he agrees. It's not like it'll hurt. If she wanted to try something, she'd have done it by now. And he'll admit, if only to himself, that she's sort of saved his evening. It's been fun talking to her. "What's the hint?"

She pretends to think about it. "I come at the end."

"The end of what," he asks before he can help himself. The girl smiles, and all the parts are there—the upward curve of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes, even the small, breathy exhale through her nose—but something about it doesn't feel like a regular smile. Silence is his only answer, and he supposes it's fair. She said one hint, after all. But he can't help the curiosity that burns in his blood. It's the thing that drives him, the desire to know, to see.

Three songs later, and he still doesn't figure it out. She laughs at some of her more outlandish guesses, but hey, people are known to give their children strange names. People are known to take on even stranger ones for themselves. "New rule," she proposes after he asks if her name is a form of punctuation.

"What?"

"You get three more tries, and if you're still wrong, then you have to dance with me." He pauses to weigh the pros and cons. Truthfully, he wouldn't mind dancing so long as it's to something slower. He doesn't think he's laughed this hard in a while, and the girl is good company. If Rose and Jack can leave him to dance together, then why can't he dance with someone else?

"Alright, Oblivion?"

"Not even close," she teases. His next to guesses are equally bad. She grins victoriously and stands after the third, hand extended out to him. "Dance with me, clever boy."

As if on cue, a slow song starts playing. It's very romantic, which makes him feel a little more nervous now than when he agreed, but a deal is a deal. She places her left hand on his shoulder and he puts right on the small of her back. Their other hands are clasped together. It's not a song to waltz to, and there isn't really space for it anyway. He'd be surprised if she even knew how since it's long since fallen out of fashion by this time, but they sway and it's not as awkward as he feared.

"Are you going to tell me," he asks. Over her shoulder he can see Jack, dancing with another man much more intimately and grinning back at him.

"You never guessed right," she points out. He spins her and she pretends her jeans are a beautiful dress, just like in the song.

He catches her hand when she twirls back. "You got me to dance," he counters.

She grins and pulls them back from nearly bumping into a nearby group. "You asked if my name was Whimper. I mean, _Whimper_."

"I was drawing on poetry!"

She hums in agreement. "Eliot. Nice chap, tiny bit of a dramatist, but that was his job."

The music cuts out abruptly, much to the annoyance of the rest of the clubbers. They make their dissatisfaction well known. The Doctor spies Jack and Rose both beginning to make their way towards him with twin looks of confusion. He's in the same boat as they are.

The girl's eyes are trained on the doorway, which he just notices is opens someone stands there, using the contrast of light to keep their features hidden. There's no mistaking the flashing lights and grunts through. "We have a warrant for the Doctor."

She glances back at him, but not in surprise like he expects. He has no idea what this warrant is for—he's only been in this one club and the alley behind it since they landed. "Guess we'll have to save the rest of the dance for later," the girl says softly. She pulls away from him, taking a step towards the officer. He wonders if she means to interfere or if the plan is to blend in with the crowd. "Better run, clever boy."

* * *

Kincaide eyes the doors with caution. Careful Kincaide—that's what everyone calls him, but it pays to be careful. Careful keeps you safe, it keeps you alive. Recklessness gets you kills. He tries to be as careful as he can. _Look both ways before crossing the street. Make sure the waiter knows all your allergies so there's no chance of cross-contamination. Don't wander past the red house on Endeavour._ In the old days on Earth, they would call places like these the wrong side of the tracks. Until the moment he crosses them, Kincaide had no idea that tracks could have a wrong side. He gets it now. It's all about how it feels on the other side. Everything, the air the ground, even the people feel wrong here.

If it were up to him, he would never come here. Sadly, it's not up to him. This is quite literally his last resort. The only reason he manages to come this far is because of his referral. Jethro is at best a distant acquaintance and at worst a nuisance that hasn't realized he's not wanted. But he swears this place is 'licit. Ever since he's come back from that vacation on Midnight—and Kincaide isn't sure how much of that fantasy tale he keeps telling is true—he's been more manageable. Slightly.

Shame it doesn't seem to be helping his coherency any. Jethro still talks like he's lofting all the time. He probably is. This is probably where he gets his drugs. Kincaide is about to walk into a drug den and the person inside is going to take one look at him, see he doesn't belong, and sell his organs. It isn't too late to turn back, is it? He's too young and beautiful to die like this.

But last resorts are last place for a reason, right?

He knocks. The door is just a plain door, but as he stands there growing more and more awkward as no reply comes, it starts to feel like one of those new titanium vault doors. He has to talk himself into trying the knob. If it doesn't turn then that's it, he's turning around and hightailing it out of there, desperate or not.

When it gives with a soft _click_ , he isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. He's sweating slightly—he's a nervous sweater, which is one of the reasons he likes to err on the side of caution because no one likes sweating. It feels like this was a test and he's just barely scraping a passing grade, but how the hell does know this is supposed to be one of those don't-knock-just-enter places? It's not like he makes a habit for visiting drug dens!

Except it isn't a drug den. Or it's not supposed to be. If Jethro mixed up the addresses then Kincaide is haunting him forever because he's dead if this doesn't work.

It's neater inside than he expects, especially given the grim and desaturated colors that everything on this side of the red house seemed to come in. Then again, the inside is also rather plain. There isn't much there in terms of decoration. The only furniture he sees is a table, an office chair, and a bigger but only slightly more comfortable looking couch. Both the desk and chair are white while the sofa has blue accents. Kincaide is so busy looking around that he completely overlooks the girl sitting in the chair.

Frankly speaking, she's not what he's expecting. In fact, if you could sum up the opposite of what he was expecting into an actual person, and apparently you can since it is an actual person staring him down, then she is it. Her most striking feature is her hair—pure white. It actually distracts from a lot of the rest of her, but he manages to take in her youthful appearance—and by youthful he means she looks younger than he is—and smaller than average stature.

Behind him, the door clicks shut, and it's like that moment where the tension-building string-filled background music would crescendo and ends, signaling his fate if this were a movie. Kincaide thinks about that sometimes, if his life were scripted entertainment. Until recently he would say the genre would be self-help, maybe one of those blockbuster slice-of-life stories they used to call _indie_ for whatever reason. But then It happens and takes over his life and now it feels like he's living an action-thriller only with less impressive stunts and no hot side character that doubles as his love interest.

The girl looks at him, bored. He takes the seven or so steps it takes to cross the corridor shakily, not sure if he should wait for her to offer him a seat or just sit down. He chooses to stay standing in the end, just in case it ends with him needing to run out. It pays to be careful, and he's Careful Kincaide. Or he was.

"I— er…" He wipes his sweaty palms against his pants and hopes she doesn't notice. There's a jug of water and an upside-down cup resting near the edge of her desk. His throat is suddenly bone dry, but he feels like asking for a glass is a sign of a sucker. "My friend—" But Jethro isn't his friend. "Or, my colleague, um. He told me. That you do stuff. I mean, not _stuff_ , I mean… like…"

"Look kid—"

"I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," he says because that's just pathetic. Jethro is nineteen, and Kincaide only just manages to tolerate him because he's twenty-two and it's immature to pick on people younger than you. But this girl is maybe eighteen at his oldest guess.

"Kid," she says like he never interrupted, "I'm not doing anything for someone who can't even say what he wants me to do. Especially not some _kid_ who's most illegal action is probably ripping vids off the net. So spit it out and let me decide if your job is worthwhile, or you can walk right back out the door."

He takes a deep breath and, "I need transport."

He has three days to get to the Triomphe Pavilion on Paris IV or his little brother is dead. Only, Paris IV is on lockdown because some moron tried to smuggle Saurian mushrooms into the colony and the spores got out into the main ventilation. Kincaide's brother stopped responding to his messages half a day ago. All the hospitals and other emergency services he's tried calling give him the same answer: they're busy managing crises and don't have time to hunt down one boy. As of two hours ago, all he's getting is a busy signal, hence this as his last resort.

Cadwal is immunodeficient and Kincaide knows for a fact that he's missed his last medication refill two days before the lockdown. If he's left somewhere without access, or runs out, then his brother is dead, spores or no spores. And even with the advances in medicine, Cadwal's immune system is still bad. The point of him studying at Paris IV is that it's supposed to be cleaner there. Everything is automated, and their grandmother, who took care of them until she died last year, made it clear to everyone in Cadwal's life how dangerous it is for him to be exposed to anything exotic.

The girl—shit, what did Jethro say her name was? Snow? Frost? Something that's also a noun—listens to his word vomit silently. It doesn't come out at all like he practiced on the bus ride and walk over. Somewhere in the middle he takes a seat in the couch that's surprisingly comfortable. A glass is magically in his hand, filled with water warmed by his grasp, and he chugs it down when he's done. Her expression is unreadable. He has no idea of she'll provide him with what he needs or if she even can.

She pulls up a newsfeed covering what little the press know and care about the Paris IV. "Saurian mushrooms," she mumbles, and he almost wants to cry. There's a reason why they're banned on nearly every human habituated planet and colony. Not only are they highly addictive, their side effects are debilitating and the lethal dose is quite low in their spore form. Most junkies extract the juice from the actual grown mushroom and dilute it by about a factor of a hundred before lofting.

"Do you have your brother's medication with you?"

It takes a moment for his brain to register and understand her question. "Huh? I'm mean, no. I tried negotiating with the pharmacist, but they refused to let me fill it in his place." And by negotiate, he meant arguing. It ended with him nearly in tears and almost thrown out of the building.

She makes a dissatisfied face and hands him something. "Here."

He takes the rectangular piece of paper—is this actual paper? Just who is this girl?—and stares at it uncomprehendingly. "What is it?"

"My card. Meet me back here in three hours and we'll we on our way. Don't stay, I have arrangements that need making and you'll only be a distraction."

"Does this mean…?" He can't quite bring himself to hope.

"We'll discuss my fee on the way to Paris IV."

Three hours is enough time for him to hurry back to his flat and pack at least an overnight bag. Kincaide can't help but run his fingers over the card again and again. He's never touched actual paper, only the synthesized stuff. It isn't fancy, just a name, a title, and a contact number. There are indents in the card where it's been typed in.

Winter, no last name. Or is Winter her last name?

Contractor. It doesn't say what sort. He wonders if that means she really is Jethro's supplier. Maybe some of the arrangements she needs to make are about drug shipments. He can't seem to find it in himself to care right now. If she'll get him to Cadwal then he can turn a blind eye. What he's asking her to do is illegal too.

He ends up tucking the card carefully in the back pocket of the extra pair of pants he packs. Real paper is precious and who knows—if they get out of this alive and not arrested, it might be handy to keep the contact information of a girl like that.

The sky is dark and clear when he makes his way back to her office. Winter. It suits her, he thinks, because of her hair. It also suits the style of the action-thriller that's become his life. The year is ending soon; the first day of winter is ironically three days from now, his deadline.

He hopes to hell with everything he has that they make it.


	2. Smith and Jones

**I meant to update this yesterday, but real life has been kicking my butt lately. I'm not quite happy with how this chapter turned out, but I've rewritten it three times and now everything's staring to blur together. Please let me know what you think. Again, I own nothing but the plot and any OCs**

* * *

It isn't hard to get herself admitted into the hospital, especially with the Saurian mushrooms partially inhibiting her lungs. She's taken an antidote, but it doesn't counteract all the side effects. Mostly, she's left with a persistent cough and the inability to keep any food down. The latter is what earns her an overnight stay, hooked up to saline drips and nutrient packs while the doctors try to determine if it's just the flu or something worse. The instruments aren't refined enough to detect the spores yet, so there's no worry about them finding some unidentifiable toxin in her system and causing a panic.

In any case, the difficult part isn't tricking the staff into letting her stay, it's passing for an ordinary, twenty-first century human girl. She has help with that from the BioPEN that was, quite frankly, a literal and figurative pain to acquire. Biometric and Perception Eclipsing Nano-impants are Black Market stuff, designed to trick any and all scanners into registering the wearer as any pre-set species. As troublesome as it is to track one down considering the creator tried her best to have them all destroyed, it's even rarer to find a doctor who knows how to put it in properly.

There's new skin covering a patch the size of two pound coin on the right side of her chest, and it itches like hell. Ideally, the BioPEN should have been put in the back of her neck, but the people Winter trusts with a spot that vulnerable can be counted on one hand, and while the back-alley doctor who performed the surgery was very skilled, he isn't one of them.

The hospital bed she sits in isn't as uncomfortable as you would think. She's certainly slept on and in worse, but she expects better from one of the best hospitals in Great Britain. The smell, like too many coats of disinfectant layered over one another, makes her nose burn. She's so incredibly bored, just waiting. It feels like watching paint dry or grass grow or snail sloth cross the road. There's a clock visible from the doorway at the nurse's station, and she swears she can hear the ticking of the hands moving so every slowly.

Her IV stand has wheels on it. They can't physically stop her from walking around, but the nurses shoot her disapproving glares as she gets up, dragging the IV stand behind her. She's not contagious, but she wears a mask anyway because it sets others more at ease than if she were just coughing indiscriminately. Her white hair earns her a few more odd looks, but people are satisfied to just dismiss it as another of those young people trends. _Dye your hair white, pretend to be old_ , she mocks internally seeing one middle-aged man's eyes narrow and nose crinkle in distaste. _Ruin your life by not caring. Good luck finding a job with hair like that_.

She's passing by the cardiology ward when it happens. Most people's first reaction is to assume it's an earthquake, but the signs are there if only you know where to look. Winter feels the moisture in the air and feels the way the shaking isn't quite consistent with how an earthquake should feel. The air bubble clicks into place with a faint hum, nearly undetectable beneath all the shouting.

She can't help but feel… oily, she decides is the word. H2O scoops always leave her feeling like that. She knows she's dry, but everything feels a little damp and heavy. The window confirms what she already knows: they've moved. The Earth is beautiful in the distance, blue seas and white clouds. There's already a fair amount of pollution in the atmosphere, but it's nothing compared to how things will be in a few hundred years.

It reminds her of the other reason she's doing this. It isn't just about being defiant or even just saving the Doctor.

Right, contemplative reflection time over, crafty maneuvering now. The hospital is rather big, so it shouldn't be too hard to avoid the Doctor. Especially since she knows roughly what areas he'll stick too. There's no time to explain and no answers she can give him that'll satisfy. She knows, because she's tried that before, and things didn't work out as well at the weapons factories of Villengard as he remembers.

The air bubble is keeping them alive for now, but it still means a limited oxygen supply. It shimmers for a second, and that's definitely someone—three guesses who—testing it out. She does some quick math and doesn't like their survival odds. Between the ensuing panic that's no doubt breaking out all over the hospital by now and the unlikelihood of the Judoon finding their criminal on their first sweep, she's pretty sure they'll run out of air before they get transported back. If they get transported back at all.

The Judoon have their good qualities: they're sturdy, strong, and straightforward. They're not one for tricks, handy in a fight, and surprisingly good chefs. On the other hand, they don't expect tricks from others unless it's right in their face, and they're not one to back down or be convinced to change their minds after it's been made. There's no talking out of this situation; the best they can do is survive the meanwhile.

Predictably, the A&E is the most chaotic. She thinks it's because other wards have nurses around regularly to check in on and calm the patients while the A&E is pretty wild on a normal basis anyway. The patients there are easily scared and most of the staff are already exhausted. Luckily, there's already a doctor there working to try and calm the crowd. He isn't faring particularly well, but it's better than nothing.

The Judoon have landed and begun their systematic scan of every living being in the building, and the Doctor has run off with Martha to avoid them and find the criminal first. Winter obediently stays still for her scan and earns a cross inked on her hand. They don't suspect a thing and she's even more grateful she decided to go with a BioPEN instead of an ordinary perception filter. Once they clear the ward and move onto the next one, she nabs the attention of the doctor playing Good Samaritan.

"Oxygen canisters?"

He falters for a second, blinking furtively like she's an apparition that's just, well, appeared out of thin air. "Excuse me?"

"You have spare oxygen canisters, right?" She's abandoned her IV in the hallway and sort of regrets it now. The nausea is manageable, but it's not pleasant. She hopes it doesn't show on her face. The universe views teenaged girls as probably one of the least authoritative people, and sick teenaged girls are even lower on that list.

"Yes, but—" Morgenstern is at a complete loss for words. "Why," he finally manages to spit out.

Winter resisted the urge to groan. This man is supposed to be a doctor, isn't he? Or at least one in training. "To extend the oxygen supply. You might wanna also start coaching people on conserving what we have."

"Right." He blinks and clears his throat before repeating it. "Right. That's, that's just what I was thinking. Swales!" He recruits another doctor in training to help him track down what they have.

The layout of the hospital is fairly straightforward. It's basically squares on top of squares, and everything from wards to supply closets to bathrooms lineup from floor to floor. The in-network communications still work by some miracle, so they're able to coordinate with doctors and nurses from other wards without wasting time and breath by physically running a messenger. It's a small mercy, but Winter takes what she can get. Especially since her plan with the oxygen canisters suffers a setback.

They have to set some aside for the patients who are actually on oxygen and need it to survive. That's fine, she has already thought of that. There aren't that actually that many patients who fall under that category, and most of them can make do with what they already have. It's the other obstacle that's worrisome. Apparently, the Royal Hope Hospital's inventory isn't up to date and there are fewer canisters than there should be. To make matters worse, a good chunk of them are only half-full or less. She curses cutbacks and tries to figure out the best way to milk what they have.

The first floor is the most populated, and the top floor is only half of one, really, with the other half closed off for renovations. She instructs the nurses on the other floors on where to set the canisters for optimal dispersal, glad she sounds older than she looks on a phone. Morgenstern looks at her like she's crazy, but he listens when she tells him to get a move on. "Unless you want to suffocate to death," she adds, because he needs that extra push.

She turns to Swales while he rushes off faster than she'd like. They're supposed to be conserving air, and that means no running around. It's bad enough that the Doctor and Martha are scurrying every which way, but at least they're working to get them back to Earth.

Swales looks about a minute from a panic attack, so Winter gives her something to focus on. She asks if the other woman knows how to calm people, preferably without the use of sedatives. There's a fair amount of criers on the room, so she sends Swales and a few other trainee doctors and nurses standing about rather uselessly to comfort them.

A downside to the Judoon she failed to mention before: they're so slow. They're still on their first sweep of the hospital, barely past the halfway point. Her trick with the canisters can only by them so much time, and she has a feeling that the mass panic is going to start back up again as soon as the first people start succumbing to oxygen deprivation.

By now, the Doctor should be figuring out who the Judoon are after. It's a start, but he really needs to leg it. If they die before the criminal is found, the Judoon will just label them as collateral damage and take their time sifting through the bodies.

Winter isn't dying here, but she can't just leave everyone else behind. She can't just abandon the Doctor.

She needs more time, which means they need more air.

Good thing she knows how to make some.

On the bright side, she's already in the hospital, which means she has everything she needs. For once, the Judoon are on her side—since everyone's preoccupied with them, no one will notice Winter sneaking around. It helps that she's very good at sneaking too. It's almost child's play to nab the excess soda lime from the supply area. She takes a few buckets down to the basement with her. The location isn't important except that it's isolated. She doesn't want to have to stop and explain—it's annoying and just wastes more air.

If she includes something alien in her CO2 scrubber to speed up the process and make it more effective, well, no one has to know. Hardly anyone comes down to the basement anyway. The few students and porters who do stick to the side room where they can gamble without the generator and furnace looming behind them. Besides, it's connected to the ventilation, which means the oxygen can spread as it forms.

Winter takes stock of herself. The hospital gown is thin, but she's rather impervious to cold anyway. She has her sword tucked away in the back pocket of her jeans, and multiple exit strategies in case things don't go as planned.

The Doctor and Martha are on the third floor. She passes by Swales, a little surprised to see the other woman has gone the extra mile in the little task Winter left for her. Surprised, but also impressed. It might just be her trying to keep calm herself, but she's helping, and that's more than Winter can say for some people.

She waits around the corner as the Doctor and Martha examine Dr. Stocker's cooling corpse in his office. They aren't in there for very long, but Martha looks more subdued when they come back out. It's easier than it should be to follow them through the corridors—the Doctor's losing his touch. Or maybe he's still finding it, it's hard to keep track sometimes.

He leaves Martha behind with a kiss to hold off the Judoon, and yep, she can already see how that's going to be a problem. Martha's already halfway gone on him. It's not her fault; it's not anyone's fault really. It's a charged lifestyle, and the Doctor's magnetic.

The Judoon shouldn't give Martha much trouble, it's just traces of non-human DNA, but she stays close just in case. The wait for the full scan to clear her is arduous. She can tell that only Martha's apprehension is what keeps her standing there instead of running after the Doctor. It's a good thing she does comply, since hiding her from the Judoon and convincing them that her, in their eyes, suspicious actions is the perfectly normal reaction of a scared human and not a sign of guilt is something that Winter hopes she never has to do. One, she'll probably end up failing, and two, there's no time.

The platoon leader hands her a slip of paper." Compensation," he grunts roughly.

Winter slips by them to the MRI room, catching Florence leaning over the Doctor and sucking his blood through a straw. She screams to draw both Martha and a pair of Judoon over. The fear she displays is all for the sake of not giving anything away, but she can't help but feel something twist awful in her gut at the sight of the Doctor's prone body.

Florence stashes the straw behind her back quickly. "Now look what you've done," she scolds. "This poor man just died of fright."

"Scan him," the Judoon chief orders. When his scanner beets, he grunts, "Confirmation: deceased."

"No, he can't be," Martha exclaims. Winter falls back into the background, letting the others forget about her. It's getting much harder to breathe, and she wants to save her breath for what comes next. "Let me thought, let me see him."

"Stop, Case closed."

"But it was her," Martha protests, pointing at Florence while she leans heavily on her knees where they touch the floor. She's tiring too, what with all the running she's been doing. "She killed him. She did it. She murdered him."

"The Judoon have no authority over human crime," the chief says dismissively.

"But she's not human."

"Oh, but I am," Florence says rather proudly. She holds up her hand to show off the X on the back of it. "I've been catalogued."

"But she's not," Martha insists. "She assimil— Wait a minute. You drank his blood. The Doctor's blood." She reaches out and points one of the scanners, still in the Judoon's hands, at the other woman.

"Oh, alright. Scan all you like."

"Non-human," the chief declares.

Florence protests while the Judoon confirm the analysis, insisting it's some sort of mistake. Martha cradles the Doctor's body in her lap, breathing heavily as she sadly says, "He gave his life so they'd find you."

"Confirmed: Plasmavore. I charge you with the crime of murdering the princess of Patrival Regency Nine."

"She deserved it," Florence spits out, dropping the act. "Those pink cheeks and those blonde curls and that simpering voice. She was begging for the bite of a plasmavore."

"Do you confess?"

"Confess? I'm proud of it! Slab—stop them!" Her one remaining henchman isn't the slightest match for the Judoon. It's disintegrated in the blink of an eye, right before the chief announces Florence's death sentence. She receives the same fate, screaming as she disappears, but not before declaring that the Judoon are going down with her.

"Case closed."

A sign lights up above the MRI machine, warning of a magnetic overload. The machine itself is humming dangerously loudly. If it blows, it'll easily take half the Earth with it. Fortunately for everyone, that's part of why she's here.

When the Judoon retreat, Martha goes with them, protesting that they can't just leave like that. Winter takes the opportunity to spring into action. Florence thought far enough ahead to fry the controls so it isn't as easy as that. It never is really. She can survive fifty thousand volts, but it won't be pleasant. Option three, then.

His airways are clear. There's a hole in his neck from the straw, but Florence is, or was now, a poor aim for a plasmavore because she missed every major artery and vein. His neck will be sore when he wakes, but he won't bleed out, so Winter leaves it. She folds one hand on top of the other and pumps fast, counting to thirty before switching over to his other heart. She reaches thirty again and breaths into his mouth before repeating it once, twice, three more times.

"What are you…" She hears Martha slump to the floor, unconscious before she can even finish her sentence. She doesn't dare look up or stop from what she's doing. If she pauses then she might pass out, and then they're all dead.

The Doctor coughs and she wants that to be it, but it's not. His eyes are still closed as he curls in on himself, gasping for breath. While he's distracted, she drags Martha over next to him and takes her place further away. Let him think that she was the one who saved him—it's just easier that way.

Her unconscious act isn't completely an act as the Doctor sits up and assesses the room. She's a bit bitter over how easily he unplugs the MRI, the showoff. She hears him shuffle over to her and doesn't have to try hard to be able to picture the look of confusion upon his face. He's perplexed, wondering who she is and what she's doing here. He won't be getting his answers this time; she's learned that there's no point when he just forgets.

That same wet feeling overcomes her as the hospital is sent back to Earth. Two fingers press against her neck lightly. It's not hard to slow her heartbeat, and he's satisfied for the moment that she's alive. She hears the door open and close as he leaves, quietly and undoubtedly through the back door so as not to garner attention. She waits an appropriated amount of time before giving up her act and slipping out herself.

It's on the news later. Morgenstern talks about his idea with the oxygen canisters and Swales is praised for going around and helping keep everyone calm. She isn't surprised that everyone's forgotten her because that's how it works. She's never been the attention-vying sort anyhow, so she doesn't really mind. The Doctor's forgotten about her too by now.

Over and over, he forgets and forgets, and she's the only one left remembering.

So she's fine, really. It just makes her life easier.

* * *

"Well, this is a surprise."

The café is designed as a winter wonderland, with actual snow dusting the ground. It's the non-melting kind, and she can't decide if the accumulation in the corners is artsy or laziness peeking through. The tables look like they're made of ice. The chairs too, but they're actually quite warm to sit in. There's a projection of snows drifting down from above, and it looks so real if not for the fact that it cuts out about ten feet from the floor. The irony is so thick it's nearly palpable. In her defense, Winter isn't the one who picked the venue so many years ago.

They sell the best hot chocolate in the galaxy here. It's thick but not cloying, and comes with these little biscuits that she likes stirring with. The cakes are so-so, better than their sandwiches but not better than the soup. The ice cream is the second best item on the menu, and the man who walks from the counter carries a little bowl with three flavors mixed in. There's Saandori redberries, Kalister honeymelon, and pistachio. She's definitely stealing some of that.

He blinks. "Sorry, do I know you?"

"I'm why you're here," she says, indicating to the empty chair across from her.

"A note told me to come here. Almost didn't, but I've heard the ice cream," he raises his bowl here to show her, "is to die for."

They've been through this before, but that's okay. Winter's mostly just happy he's even here. Half the time he doesn't show, dismissing the reminder of their standing date as a mistake or not worth the trip.

"It is. You should try the mint flavor next time. Mint, pistachio, and a hint of avocado."

He smiles flirtatiously. "Well, I do like someone who can handle their greens. Captain Jack Harkness." His hand is cold from the bowl, but she doesn't mind. He takes the seat and it doesn't escape her notice how he keeps his blaster in easy reach, or how his eyes have a calculating gleam that he hides behind charm and being just short of too straightforward.

"Winter," she says, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

"Cute," he notes, and manages not to sound condescending. "I get it." He says something along those lines every time. "Now, wanna tell me why you're the reason I'm here?"

"Depends on how long you've got this time. It's an explanation that can't be rushed."

"Can't be missed either, I'm guessing." He spoons a bite of ice cream into his mouth and she knows she has him. "I've got time."

Jack only laughs when she unrepentantly steals half his ice cream. He orders a mug of hot chocolate on her recommendation, and they end up leaving the café in search of real food a few hours later. She loves the moment when he goes from distant to believing, and she knows because he always gives her the same smile. The difference between him with a stranger and with someone he cares about is so obvious that he may as well be holding up a neon sign.

He's sad when they have to part ways, just like he always is. More than once she entertains the idea of them sticking together, but it's one of those things where their fates fail to align. She has things to do, and so does he, and both their things don't include each other. She types in a reminder for their next meeting, six months from now when she knows she'll be free. He'll forget about her in the meantime, and she has no idea if he'll actually show up. He doesn't promise that he will, and she's glad for it.

"What about," he starts to say, drawing out their farewell as long as he can. Longer than he can give.

Winter smirks and pretends she isn't just as reluctant to leave. "Just saw him. And Martha. They were both so young."

Jack chuckles heartily, but also wearily. To him, Martha is long since dead, a ghost from the past that's sometimes fond, sometimes painful to remember. "Next time you see her, send her my regards."

"'Course."

He hugs her, long and tight. Jack's the first person to ever hold her like that. She thinks if she were actually winter than his hug would be enough to melt her. "Same with you," she says, face buried in his shoulder. "Next time you see them, send my love." He won't remember the message, but he'll remember the sentiment, and she thinks that's enough.

She blends in with the crowd, hanging back and watching him for a while. This part's the worst, and she doesn't know why she makes herself watch, only that she feels like she has to. The second she slips from Jack's memory, his entire demeanor changes. Some of the grief lessens, and she thinks that's the only good thing about the entire experience. But his smile also gains that tired edge again, he walks a little heavier.

She lingers in the doorway when she gets back to her place. That's when she knows she has to move soon, when it starts to feel like her place, not just a place to see clients. It's been too long. Too many whispers, too many ties. But not quite yet. She still has some cases to tie up, and some promises to keep.

There's a message waiting for her on her desktop. Her clients don't often extend to relatives of royalty, but sure enough, the Empress's cousin, the Viceroy of Porpentine II is demanding that she take on her request. It's only slightly illegal, and that slight factor is the only thing that has her hesitating. In her experience, if royals don't send their own grunts to do their dirty work, then it's because something needed covering up and they want someone expendable they can cut loose. Or double cross. The last two times Winter took a job from someone rich, that exact thing happened once she got hold of what they wanted.

But the channel over which the Viceroy's message is sent is secure. Winter works a lot off referals and she likes knowing who sends who to her. The Viceroy could only have gotten this particular code from someone Winter trusts.

She hits the rely button, asking for more information before including her rates. She's not afraid to charge double or triple from someone of means, and the Viceroy is without a doubt rich beyond sense. In any case, if she's going to risk life, dismemberment, and betrayal, then she wants it to be worth her while. Relocation isn't cheap and she's been too soft hearted lately, taking on too many sob stories like Kincaide.

And she's always wanted to go to the Medusa Cascade.

The desktop beeps. Fast, she notes, which can't be a good sign. Even worse, it's the Viceroy herself who calls. Well, Winter was planning on negotiating with, terrifying, and/or annoying any stand-in until they brought her out anyway. She's not one to work for intermediates, and it never fails to annoy her how people think that just because she agrees to take on a task for them, they can treat her like a minion. But the fact that they're not even bothering with a pretense is disappointing. It also makes her nerves hum, and her heartbeat even out a little.

The Viceroy is beautiful in a way that doesn't quite seem real. Her head is covered with thin brown spikes, currently lax and giving off the illusion of hair, but ready to tense at a moment's notice. The jewels adorning her neck, and the veil built into her hairpiece perfectly matches her eye colour. Her huge dress looks like it weighs more than she does, and costs more than the annual income of entire families.

It must be bad for her to be putting so much extra effort in how she looks. Especially when it's only for a lowly contractor.

"You're the one they call Winter," she says. She doesn't ask because it's beneath her to ask.

"Among other things," Winter says.

There's a pause in the conversation. Standoff is not quite the correct word, not when she knows she has the upper hand. The Viceroy's jaw tenses minutely with irritation. It's beneath her to open the topic, to ask something of someone else without the guarantee that they'll have to accept.

Eventually, the Viceroy has no choice but to give in. There's no change to her outward appearance when she says, "Concerning my request—I trust I have your utmost discretion? I don't need to tell you what a political disaster it would be if news got out."

"Political disaster" is an understatement, and not even half the problem. The Viceroy wants her to retrieve a device that's not inherently destructive, but can easily become that way. It has the power to tear apart an entire star system, to end a war or start one. Billions of lives are at stake, and the Viceroy only cares about the political backlash.

Winter leans back in her chair. It's tempting to lash out, but it's also useless, so she plays the picture of nonchalance instead. The Viceroy sees her as a greedy grunt, to be used and discarded the second she becomes a liability. It's irritating, but there are larger things at stake than her pride. "I've forwarded you my rates."

Is it the connection, or does the Viceroy's left eye twitch? "Yes, and you'll get your dues when the job's finished."

"I'll need forty percent upfront." Oh yeah, that's definitely a twitch. "Think of it as collateral."

"Fine," she practically spits out. "Anything else?"

"I'll let you know," Winter replies with a pleasant smile. "Send me the data package and we'll see how soon I can reunite you with your missing device."


	3. Martha

**Thanks to everyone who showed an interest in this story! The language warning comes in effect for this chapter: gratuitous swearing ahead. There's also a scene that gets mistaken for attempted sexual assault. Nothing happens, and while I don't think it's triggering, I'm putting the warning here anyway. For those that don't know: mace and pepper spray are illegal in the UK. Farb Gel is a nontoxic alternative that's basically really strong dye meant to mark offenders.**

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The incident with the Judoon at Royal Hope Hospital isn't actually the first time Winter and Martha meet. Winter doesn't mean anything by it; she's just curious, that's all. She knows of her, but she doesn't know her at all. She wants to see what sort of woman Martha Jones is, more than just the stories and snippets she manages to dig up.

Speedy's is half a convenience store, a quarter of a café, three-sixteenths of a health hazard, and the rest the most boring job Winter ever works. The original owner is an elderly lady who no longer has the energy or mobility to mind the shop. She passed it down to her son some years ago, and as far as Winter knows, he's never steps foot inside other than to collect the money from the register. One of the other workers gives her a five minute rundown of how everything works and then goes back to ignoring her. They alternate off who mans the counter and who restocks, though she's left doing most of it on her own when he doesn't show up for his shifts.

Most of the people who happen to live nearby know better than to get their groceries from the store. Winter sees the occasional Proper Adult picking something up last minute that they absolutely need, and all of them wear the same face of barely disguised disdain. She never bothers to make conversation with any of them because there's no point. They'd all rather get in, get out, and then pretend like this corner of the world doesn't even exist once they have what they need.

The rest of her customers come largely from the medical school down the block and affiliated hospital. Martha is one of them, and the first time she comes in after Winter starts working is on a gloomy Saturday morning in May. She spends a good long while just staring at the shelves in the back with no expression on her face. A honk from the street snaps her out of it, and she eventually makes her way over to the counter.

Martha dumps two packs of energy drinks, a few protein bars, a bag of chips, and orders a large coffee. Her hands shake a little when she hands over her shopping bag and card to pay. Winter spies bags under her eyes and a slump in her shoulders. Despite all other signs of exhaustion and stress, her jaw is set determinedly, and her eyes are bright when they meet Winter's.

She packs Martha's things quietly. The bag is well-worn. One corner is fraying, and two others show signs of rushed stitching. She thinks it was once white or a light cream, but it's tanned from use with a few faded stains still lingering. The pattern is of stethoscopes and lab coats, and she can't really explain why, but it endears Martha to her just a little.

"Good luck," she says as Martha slings her bag over her shoulder.

She pauses midway to the door with a furrow in her brow. "What?"

"Exam season? You're a student at the university down the block, yeah? Most of our customers are," Winter adds when the suspicion doesn't quite clear from her face.

"Thanks…" Her eyes zero in on Winter's nametag, and she's a little glad that she picked a more normal sounding name to put on her application. Not that she can't swing "Winter" as a creative nickname, but that's not a story you just blurt out to strangers and she doesn't want to give Martha the slightest reason not to come back. "Aria. That's a pretty name."

The bell chimes behind her as the door closes. Unfortunately, it's the highlight of her day. A few other students amble in closer to noon, and one rushing nurse orders three of their limp-looking sandwiches to go, but that's it.

Winter suspects that sheer boredom plays a part in why the pay is so low. She has enough from previous jobs that she doesn't need to worry for a good long while so long as she doesn't make any questionable financial choices. Housing isn't a problem since she can stay on her ship, so it's mainly just food.

The week after Martha comes in, a man tries to hold up the store. It's near closing time on a Thursday, and predictably, there's no one else in the shop. David, the other worker who mentored her for those handful of minutes, is actually in today. He's also on his third fifteen-minute smoke break of the past two hours, in the alley out the back door behind the large dumpster.

Twitchy takes his time browsing the alcohol, filling his basket with the most expensive cheap brands they carry. When he's finally done, he brings his loot to the counter and that's when he pulls out the knife, demanding she pack his things and empty out the register. Winter almost thinks it isn't worth the effort to talk or take the would-be thief down. There isn't that much money in the register anyway.

But then he catches her eyes on the knife he keeps flicking around and has to go and be an asshole about it. "That's right bitch." He holds it up closer to her face, nearly slashing her when he indicates for her to look at him. The whites of his eyes are yellow and bloodshot. "Hand it over 'less you want me to carve that pretty face o' yours in."

He keeps talking, keeps calling her names like "Blondie" and "Bitch". "Oh, but you're a pretty bitch, aren't'cha? Yeah, I bet you'd scream real good when I—"She opens up the register and he doesn't wait for her to collect the cash. It's a stupid move for him to reach in \himself. One, it takes his eyes off of her, though she's sure her reaction time is faster than his anyway. Second, it lets her easily do this.

"Augh! You bitch!"

She doesn't listen as he curses her uncreatively, and finds satisfaction instead in the crunch of bone breaking. She pulls the drawer of the register back open and, before he can react, slams it shut again on his fingers. He howls a second time, right arm swinging out to try and get her with the knife. He's as uncreative in attacking as he is in swearing, and it's child's play to grab his wrist and twist until he's forced to let his grip go.

The knife clatters noisily on the counter. Twitchy tries to back away, cradling his injured hand to his chest. It's another dumb thing to do since his other arm is still in her grasp. "Lemme go, you crazy bitch! God, what the fuck is wrong with you? You're insane! Just wait'll I—"

"Until you what," she asks, twisting his arm down a little more. She doesn't go so far as to break it, but he cries out like she does. It's noisy and annoying, and Daniel has now moved into the twenty-minute mark of his break. Today isn't the first time he's done this—showed up only to be completely useless. He likes to boss her around and pretend that having seniority give him some sort of power. And it's not like she loves this job either, but at least she does what tasks are expected of her without endless complaining and expectations of praise.

Screeches of metal on concrete and a loud bang signal Daniel's return. He stops three steps into the front room and nearly falls over with shock. Drama queen. It's not like it's _that_ surprising. He's not even the one who had a knife in their face.

"What the hell? Blondie, what d'you think you're doing?! You can't beat up a customer!"

Oh, _now_ he chooses to be customer conscientious? What about two days ago when that businessman was chewing her out for not having the hand soap he wanted? It wasn't even that they ran out of it entirely, they just didn't have the right bottle size. But he still made a stink about it, yelling that he should have _expected no less from a lazy teenager working a deadbeat job_ and _see if I'm ever shopping here again_!

She lets go. "Your friend's a freak," Twitchy says, cradling this arm to his chest as well. He looks like some parody of a blushing maiden trying not to get dirty. "I was only asking for some smokes, and look what that blonde bitch did to my hand!"

"What? Ariel—"

"Aria," she corrects. It doesn't surprise her that Daniel doesn't know her name, but she expects him to at least be able to read her nametag. It's four letters and one is repeated twice. "You were trying to rob us," she says to Twitchy.

He turns to Daniel, "Nuh-uh, man, the bitch is crazy, man. Just look at her—"

She snatches up the knife on the counter. Neither of them even notice until the blade is buried in the shelf behind the would-be thief. "Stop calling me a bitch," she says. He gulps audibly. "Now get out before I call the police."

Twitchy flees, nearly ramming into the doors in his haste to leave.

Daniel gapes like a fish at her. "Problem?" He shakes his head rapidly. "Put that back, will you?" She nods to the basket full of liquor still on the counter. He opens his mouth for a retort, but then glances between her and the knife and thinks better of it. He's not smart of enough to quit after that, but he is smart enough to never try bossing her around again.

It's a good thing Martha shows up the next day, because Winter is starting to forget why she's there in the first place. There's no exchange of words this time. Martha is with two fellow medical students. Exams must be over since they all look an amusing mix of relieved and despondent. She thinks Martha does well, and not just because she knows the other woman makes it into her second year of clinical training.

The next time, Martha's with her older sister Tish. They buy popsicles even though the temperature is rather mild for late spring. Tish complains about her manager at her newest job, and Martha sympathizes with tales about her horrible lab partner. They both dance around the topic of how they'll soon be aunts and how both their mum and dad want to be there for the birth.

There's no discernable pattern to their interactions after that. Sometimes Winter will initiate the exchange of pleasantries, and sometimes Martha will. They talk about the weather, about when some item or another will be back in stock, about the story on the news last night. Or they don't talk at all outside the customary bill and change.

Something happens one day, about seven months after she starts working at Speedy's. It's nearly Christmas, and they have a few lights up at the store, taped up along the wall behind the counter by Ally. Winter works with her more often than David now, and she doesn't mind much because Ally at least does actual work. But she's a busybody, always gossiping and going on about the latest celebrity rumors. She's also the type who thinks Christmas is a universal fact and bristles when anyone offers so much as a "Happy Holidays" equivalent.

But Ally, David, and Speedy's are only peripheral to what happens, and what happens is this: Winter almost gets caught.

She's careless and lets her guard down when she knows better. It's late, and she's tired and bored of the twenty-first century. For all it's oddities and charms, it's backwards and nonsensical and the lull, the normality, the sheer boring-ness of it all makes her skin _bristle_. It isn't like she doesn't know how to slow down. Winter takes breaks—she's been on a break for the past seven months—and she feels the urge to run building up inside her.

Pity she doesn't take her own advice.

She kicks herself for it later, running the scenario over and over until she can pick out exactly what went wrong and what she can do so it never happens again. For now, the world blurs as she's pulled harshly into the shadow of the back alley. She loses a shoe to the pavement, the sneaker slipping right off as she tries to drag her heels in and fails to find purchase. The hand forcing her arm behind her back is nearly as ironclad in its grip as the one shoving her face into the brick wall.

A hundred stings prick her cheek as she struggles to turn and face her attacker. He's a blur in her peripheral vision, and the only reason she knows it's a he is from his low laugh. His breath is heavy and damp on her neck. "Lookie what I've caught! I've been combing half the galaxy for you."

Blues and purples explode behind her eyes. Gagging slightly, she tries her best not to lose her lunch as the cloying taste of too sour cranberries coats her tongue and the back of her throat. Allucinari secrete hormones transferred by touch and activated when the other party hears them speak. It's a nasty feeling not dissimilar to a bad acid trip, or so Winter has heard since she's never taken acid nor been exposed to Allucinari hormones before now. It's almost as nauseating as being exposed to Saurian mushroom spores.

Mouth Breather behind her is cocky. Having a system designed to in incapacitate built into your biology is handy, but it's not the be all end all of techniques. Every tiny movement sparks more colors in her vision and it's starting to give her motion sickness, but she can still move. He's only thought to hold down one of her arms, so her left is free by her side. Unless some new lights have come on in the past minute, it's dark enough for her to move without him noticing right away. Allucinari also have terrible night vision, which only makes him ambush that much more poorly planned.

Her sword is in her back pocket. All it would take is one swing, and she can get the arm holding her down. Or his legs since they're practically pressed up against hers. She wants to gut him, to tear out his voice box and watch him choke on his own blood.

Instead, she swings her leg back and trips him. Spinning so her arm is no longer pressed against her back, she flips their grips so she holds his wrist instead and drags him into the wall. He falls face first into it, and the lenses of his goggles shatter under the force. Not quite so dumb then, she considers, though it makes no difference. She's about to draw out her cuffs—if he's not touching her then he can yell all he likes and it won't do a thing. She'll take him back to his ship, maybe pilfer his supplies if she finds anything worthwhile, then drop him off at the nearest Judoon outpost. Bounty hunting is illegal in Earth's airspace in this time.

"Hey!" The familiarity of the voice stops her in her tracks. Martha's wide eyes take the two of them in. Winter spares a second to be grateful that Allucinari are mostly humanoid. He's a hulking figure, easily past six foot five, and she has blood running down her face from being slammed against the wall earlier. Even with their positions flipped, she knows what this must look like to Martha.

Mouth Breather takes her moment of weakness to lunge at her. He doesn't get the chance to reach her because he suddenly has a face full of Farb Gel. The red is almost painfully vibrant against his pale skin, and she has a feeling that the dye is reacting badly to his biology. He screams and runs off, nearly tripping over some bins as he goes. Winter discretely shoots a tracker after him and stops Martha from giving chase with a shaky "Thank you."

"You alright," the other woman asks, checking her over. "Er, you work at the shop round the corner from the hospital, right? Um…"

Winter nods as something simultaneously rises and crashes in the pit of her stomach. The scrapes on her cheek and the bruises of her arm will heal without a problem. She's more shaken up than anything. If some two-bit amateur is able to track her down then she really has gotten careless. Sloppy. Stupid. What if it had been someone better? And what if it had been something less humanoid than an Allucinari? How could she explain that to Martha, who isn't supposed to suspect a thing about aliens until she loses her cousin next year?

She needs to go. Right now. She needs to get out of this time, this system, this galaxy that's making her go soft.

Martha looks unconvinced. "Are you sure?" Winter likes the way she asks the question. It's not condescending or belittling and she keeps her voice down. She doesn't press, doesn't reach out or take any steps closer. She'll make a good doctor.

Winter swallows around the lump in her throat and nods again. "Yeah," she says, clearing her throat and repeating it louder when it comes out completely unconvincingly. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just, I gotta go. Thank you—for helping, I mean. You scared him off."

"Do you want me to call the police?"

"No, it's fine. I just really have to go." She runs off before Martha can do something else humanitarian, like offering to walk her home. Tracking Mouth Breather without consulting the tracer she put on him is calming. He hasn't gotten far, and by the time she has him hogtied with duct tape slapped over his mouth, she feels more centered.

His ship is junk, and his belongings just shy of scrap. She doesn't even bother bringing him to the Judoon herself, just sets a course on his ship and leaves a note. The next morning, she resigns from Speedy's.

The next time Martha sees her, she'll have forgotten they've ever met. She might have vague memories of a blonde girl behind the counter at the shop she sometimes goes to, and she'll probably remember something of rescuing a younger girl from assault. Maybe the name "Aria" will evoke a sense of déjà vu, but that's it. People never remember Winter for long, and something about time traveling makes them forget even more. She thinks it probably has to do with residual energy from the Vortex, but it's not something she's interesting in studying or learning about.

To Martha and the Doctor, she's just another face in the crowd, just another nameless ghost.

That's fine, Winter thinks. She's not used to being remembered anyway, and forgetting keeps people safe.

You would think she learns from that, and she has, in a way. She takes more precautions now, and she never stays in one place that long again. There are a handful of encounters with the Doctor, sometimes on accident and sometimes on purpose. It's safer to stick to his earlier days, but that's not always what happens.

Inevitably, Winter gets curious again. Rose is younger than Martha, though she's not the youngest companion the Doctor has taken on. She's blonde and blue-eyed, but if there's a single colour that describes her best, it's pink. Bright, bubbly, energetic, and unmistakable when spotted.

She's why Winter is here, holding back the urge to scream. Before Rose meets the Doctor, she works in the clothing section of Henrik's Department Store. It's a large building that could use some expansion to their appliance section and less of their cosmetics. That department is largely taken up by an assortment of perfumes and colognes, which Winter can smell from across the floor. It makes working in the clothing section even more unbearable since they're right next to each other.

Early twenty-first century fashion, especially the 2000s, is horrid. Everything is too baggy or tight, and it looks like it was slapped together by a child who still doesn't understand the concept of clothes. Nothing is made to last, and the less she can say about the colours the better. Winter has a bit of a soft spot for fashion. She likes fitting in and dressing for the time if she can make the appropriate alterations. Even Victorian dresses are fine so long as she can still move in them. But this time, she puts her foot down, because if she caught in any of the clothes she's trying to help sell, it'll be when she's dead.

The woman who interviews her is called Sally—early thirties, straight brown hair, and wearing a ruffled blouse that's all too distracting due to its lime green colour. It reminds Winter greatly of the planet Thisca where a deadly poison of that exact shade wiped out most of the indigenous life. Sally speaks with a forced cheer that doesn't fool anyone, not even herself, into thinking she's actually happy. Her questions are rather straightforward: _why do you want this job? Why should we hire you? Previous experience? What would you do if…_

Winter answers most of them on autopilot. Her resume is entirely made up, but it isn't like Sally will bother to check any of her references so long as she doesn't make them too conspicuous. The most ridiculous part of the interview is when she's quizzed on fashion trends and terminology. Winter aces that section because nothing sticks in the mind studier than things you'd rather forget. All she has to do is pitch her voice and reword some replies so she sounds more pleased. The irony that she'll be selling clothes she doesn't even like when she's hired doesn't escape her.

Apparently, she's a much better actor than she gives herself credit for since the interview ends with Sally beaming. That, or Henrik's is desperate. Sally puts her in the fitting room, promising that she'll get the hang of things "in a flash. It's not hard, just count the items each customer has, hand them a number, and show them to an empty room. When they're done, take the stuff they don't want and put it on the rack here. Someone'll be by to put them back where they belong. Oh! And if anyone asks for an opinion, tell them they look great."

Sally leaves before Winter can event think of a reply. It's even less of a rundown than David gave her at Speedy's, though that may be because Sally talks faster. Winter pokes around, grateful for the slow morning. Twelve stalls, six on either side, make up the fitting room. There's a large rack already three-quarters filled with clothes in no discernable order by an empty chair. The wall next to it has numbered placards hanging, all out of order, and a quick peak inside the stalls tell her that no one's thought to empty them in a while. She wonders what the point of numbers then, if they aren't being properly used. It's a wonder they don't have more of a problem with shoplifting.

It takes her the rest of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon to get things in the proper order. She runs out of hangers at one point, and is directed to the netherworld that is the basement for more. When she comes back from her lunch break, she sees that someone has dumped even more clothes onto her already full cart. So far, there's no sign of anyone coming by to collect the articles, so she goes around doing it herself. Sally chews her out when she sees that she's left her station and doesn't let her get in a word edgewise.

All in all, the experience is as frustrating as Winter expected. Retail is a thankless job and she can't wait for the day the building blows up, if only to destroy the clothes.

Rose flits in and out of her path throughout the day. They don't talk; there isn't time, and Winter wants to keep her distance. She's learned from her time with Martha, and she won't make the same mistake of getting close. Part of that is taken care of simply by the timing of when she's hired. In a few short weeks for linear humans, Rose will meet the Doctor and they'll be off. It's a short enough time that she should completely forget the new girl at her former job. If not, well, exposure to the Time Vortex should take care of the rest.

Rose smiles as she passes by, and that's their most noteworthy interaction. It doesn't stop Winter from observing the other girl though. Within the first couple of hours, it becomes obvious that while Rose hates her job, she gets on with most of her colleagues. She's also very disgruntled and loves her mum no matter how much she complains about how she nags. Her life is wholly unlike any Winter's experienced before, and she's got quite a variety of experiences under her belt.

She isn't sure if she likes it or not, but she's leaning towards not. The days are taxing and boring like how working at Speedy's was. They only vary by how busy she is or what food she eats. Maybe if she had a more mentally stimulating task, but there's only so many times she can rearrange the placards before she wants to scream. Some people are fit for this life, and she isn't one of them.

A break wouldn't be remiss. Sure she's only been at it a week, but it's been a week of excellence. Sally doesn't say anything, but Winter knows that the fitting room has never looked better and never will again. Besides, she'll still show up for work on Monday, her weekend just won't be two days like everyone else. She's thinking at least four, maybe five if things really get out of hand.

Or maybe longer. She has all of time and space at her fingertips.


	4. Nightmare in Silver

**A bit of a longer chapter this time. The plan is for things to hopefully start picking up after this. I hope you enjoy! Again, I own nothing.**

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Her four day weekend ends up lasting longer than four days. Much longer. Part of her thinks that the proper thing to do would be to feel guilty, but she can't really be bothered. It isn't as if she's spends the two weeks on a lark enjoying the beach and sun either. She ends up on a wild goose chase through three galaxies and five time zones before she finds herself materializing in front of a punishment platoon exiled to a mostly empty backwater planet.

So many guns, so many twitchy fingers. Winter has half a mind to teleport out, but they've already seen her. The fact that she's here unexpectedly means the Doctor is somehow involved, but she doesn't think he's arrived yet. If he was, there would be a lot more yelling and death threats. She's early then. She can make that work. It's a good thing she thought to keep the badge she pilfered from that crooked Lieutenant-Colonel who tried to solicit her. All it takes is the addition of a simple little code to change the display. She expects a bit more from the Human Empire by this time, but is also not surprised in the least.

Captain Alice Ferrin still eyes her suspiciously. She's annoyed and frustrated with how easily the rest of her platoon relaxes, and channels that into her regard towards Winter. She doesn't quite blame the other woman, knowing full well what she looks like, and it's nice to see that one of them has some common sense.

"Shall I have you cited for improper maintenance of artillery," she asks. Once you read one military handbook, you've pretty much read them all. They're all variations of each other anyway, only updated to suit the changing terminology.

Ferrin unsuccessfully holds back a sign. "Apologies, Lieutenant-Colonel. Notice of your arrival must've gotten lost in the mail." It's not exactly protocol to show up unannounced. It isn't against protocol either, but that's neither here nor there. Moreover, no one expects anyone above the rank of captain to have anything to do with a punishment platoon.

"No worries. I'm assuming temporary command of this platoon. Give me the rundown?"

She falters at both the lack of ceremony and the question. Ferrin is used to superiors barking orders and having expectations without explaining, but Winter can't see why having a higher rank than someone means bullying them around. It's counterproductive, not to mention just plain mean.

The tour she gets is so comprehensive, it's almost too informative. Every time someone interrupts Ferrin, she tenses and gauges Winter's reaction, expecting reproach. Winter just rolls with it. The platoon is made up of four other members: Beauty, Brains, Ha-Ha, and Missy. She has no idea what their real names are past the captain's, and she doesn't really care since they all seem happy with their nicknames. What she does care about is how much they stink as a team. Brains and Ha-Ha keep bickering, which Beauty only edges on, and Missy has a tendency to hide when she gets too nervous. They all respect Ferrin, but it's the sort of respect that's been dulled by inaction and closed quarters.

There's no time for anything else that first day after she finally gets through the frankly exhaustive amount of information Ferrin all but dumps on her. Resources are scarce, as if being exiled wasn't punishment enough, and Ferrin gracefully volunteers her slightly better accommodations. Not one to put someone out of their own bed, Winter declines and makes do with was once a very dusty office with the table pushed up against the wall to make room for her cot. The others, minus Ferrin, bunk together in a larger room.

The time alone gives her a chance to check her notes. She has three weeks to whip the group into some sort of shape before the Doctor arrives and the Cybermen reveal themselves as not quite extinct. It's going to be a long three weeks, but she has a feeling that it beats going back to Henrik's.

Winter tosses and turns the entire night. It isn't just because of the lumpy bedding beneath her, or the chill through the thin sheets, or even the less than sanitary room. She's slept in worse places under worse circumstances. She can't even really put a finger on why she's so restless. Unconsciousness takes her what feels like five minutes before she's supposed to be up again, and her body feels wrong. Stiff. Heavy.

She pushes past it in favor of getting things ready for her new platoon started on running drills. It proves to be somewhat of a challenge when she finds the camp lacking in more categories than it isn't. It's hard to make an obstacle course when there's nothing to work with. She supposes she can use the spare desks, but there's only three of them. In the end, Winter meanders over to Hedgewick's World of Wonders.

It's cold at the beach, and the water looks murky. The plants in the garden are either dead or dying, but some of the trees will make good signposts, and the dried leaves will be a lesson in sneaking. She stays clear of the mushroom attraction, but manages to find spare wood and rope left over at the boating lake. Eventually, she ends up picking through the Spacey Zoomer Ride for some rocks.

Only two people inhabit the amusement park now: Webley and Porridge. Ferrin only knows about the former; he was part of her briefing, put down as a harmless if not irritating civilian. He peeks out skittishly from the hidden entrance of his exhibit, eyeing her and her wagon carefully. "You wouldn't happen to be my ride, would you?"

"Afraid not," she replies, tossing a medium-sized rock into her load.

"Ah." Poor Webley. He never does make it off the planet. But maybe this time it'll be different, maybe they can save him. She only has a basic grasp of how things end up so she's not sure when he gets converted by the Cybermites, but she promises herself to do the best she can to keep an eye out.

"Good luck," she bids him as she finally gathers the last of what she needs. Webley's gaze on her back is curious, but she doesn't explain. If she can't save him then she doesn't want to get attached.

A couple of hours later, when the sun is properly rising, she wakes the others with orders to get dressed and keep their breakfast light. "Or you'll be tasting it a second time," she says with a smile, and goes to put the finishing touches on her arena. She has it all rigged up in the open space that was probably once grass, and it's a thing of beauty.

There are five distinct sections, and the first is a half-mile jog. It's rather tame really—there's no incline, and the path is nearly completely straight. Her only addition is sand from the beach heated to a mildly unbearable temperature. After running barefoot through that, the group will reach the next section for crawling. She has ropes tied in over makeshift trenches with seashells dangling down. Harmless, but irritating, and the point is to crawl under without disturbing them.

Next is a balancing act, and really, the fall isn't that high. She's constructed a wooden walkway stretching fifteen feet and supported by barrels to shake things up a bit. Fourth is target practice with the only two rechargeable blasters they have since she's trying to save the rest of their ammo. Wrapping it all up is another half-mile run, only this one is meant for hiding and sneaking. The ground is scattered with dried leaves that crunch underfoot, and she's placed various trees, boulders, and other objects large enough to hide behind or under around the area. She has a slingshot and pebbles ready, and a whistle around her neck because who doesn't like the power of a whistle?

Their first go is painful to watch. The words "unmitigated disaster" come to mind. They make the first run okay, but then Brains somehow gets tangled in the rope and pulls the entire crawling rig down. Ha-Ha slips so badly on the beam that she thinks he also slips a disk. At target practice, something scares Missy terribly, causing her to nearly take out Beauty with the gun. Only Ferrin makes it the entire way through, but she's alone and that in and of itself is a problem.

At least they have medical supplies. Winter tends to Ha-Ha's back and the rope burns on Brains. She sets up the ropes and shells again, higher this time to give them more room. They'll work their way down there. Missy has to be talked down from hysterics and Beauty has to be placated too. She establishes a new rule of going one at a time for target practice, taking away the other gun for now.

They break for lunch, which mostly consists of dry rations. It's slightly better tasting than the stuff they have in the twenty-first century, but only slightly. Winter gives them a couple of hours after to cool off, relax, and recuperate while they digest. During this time, she checks the proximity sensors, double-checks their weapons stocks, and finds herself on the cliffs that overlook the beach, staring out at the sea.

Salt lingers in air, and she can still hear the rush of water. Beneath that she can make out the hum of electricity. The ocean is artificial, and it's supposed to have an automated cleanup system. The trash bin is long full so what's left just keeps getting moved around and around, dirtying the waters. Sonic waves create the tide; the controls are poorly disguised as a shed labeled "Supplies".

"Lieutenant-Commander," Ferrin calls over the comm.

"I've told you, just Winter is fine." Being called "Lieutenant-Commander" makes the hair on her skin rise.

"Lieutenant-Commander," Ferrin repeats firmly, "the two hours you've given us are up. Will you be returning the base to provide further instruction?"

She glances back to the shed for a moment. Maybe it'll come in handy. "Get started on running the course again," she tells Ferrin. "I'm on my way back now."

The second run is slightly better. No one gets injured, but there are enough close calls that she's on edge the entire time. Slowly, the platoon gets better. Winter changes up the order and difficulty of the course, trying to get them used to reacting to variables. It also helps their teamwork. They're still a mismatched crew, but hard work and shared experiences breed collaboration.

During the afternoon breaks, or when she has the platoon running to build stamina, she ignores her own advice and winds up at Webley's. It takes a while for him to warm up to her when he finds that she's part of the military. Porridge eyes her carefully, unconvinced of her rank. Winter doesn't mind since it's a lie anyway and she knows his secret too. They play chess, usually over tea, and wager petty trinkets.

In the early mornings or late evenings when she can't sleep, she ends up at the shed tinkering with the sonic mechanics. She's in there when Ferrin rings her nervously. "Ma'am, we've got some visitors… The Imperial Consul is here with his guests."

That must be the Doctor. He's early for once. "Guests?"

"Um, a girl and two children."

The girl must be Clara, and the children are probably the kids she helps to look after. Winter wasn't expecting them to tag along. The Cybermites will go after them first—children are easier to convert, and have more potential. No doubt the Doctor will be identified as the most knowledgeable, so they'll try and designate him as Cyber-Planner. It's not ideal, but she can work with that. "Any news of the Emperor," she remembers to ask Ferrin, holding back a hiss as the device in her hands shocks her. The casing will stop that, but she has to get it on first.

"No, Ma'am."

It clicks into place. Success. "Right. Well, what can we do, he's above our jurisdiction. Keep me posted." It'll be good to know what the Doctor's up to while she does her thing. Ferrin replies back with an affirmative before she closes the link and evaluates her artillery. Two sonic pulses are disguised as coins, and so long as no one looks too long, they won't notice the flashing light behind Porridge's eyes. She tucks the water pistol filled with cleaning fluid into a holster strapped to her upper leg. Lastly, she tapes a high frequency sonic patch behind her ear. On the off chance that Cybermites try to take her, it will disable them long enough for her to teleport out. Exposure to the Time Vortex should do the rest in frying their circuits.

Two and a half weeks is more than enough time for her to become familiar with the amusement park and Webley's place. She knows which spots creak, which hiding places only actually keep you hidden from one angle, and how much noise is too much. She listens to Angie complain about being forced to take a nap and waits until the Doctor leaves for the second time to move.

Artie slips into sleep quickly, but Angie refuses to stay still for long. She screws her eyes shut and wiggles, turning left and right to try to find a comfortable position. Winter has to move fast, slipping one coin in each of their pockets. There's barely enough time to wedge herself back behind the inaccurate replica of Porridge before Angie gives up trying to sleep and stands.

The pulses aren't enough to completely repel Cybermites. Winter doesn't have the proper tools or supplies to build something like that. She would need more time, and in any case, any crude version she can whip up isn't something you want a developing brain exposed to. Instead, the coins will keep the mites from fully converting the children, at least until the Doctor can get to them. "Walking coma" is preferable to "fully converted Cyperman".

It's too late to help Webley. She curses her own ineptitude. What use is a promise to keep an eye out if she's not even there to help when it happens?

Ferrin rings her again a few minutes later. Winter keeps around Webley's place because she knows the Doctor will be back soon, but she's careful not to linger too close. Even with the patch, she doesn't want to chance the Cybermites getting ahold of her. The detox won't be pleasant, and Cybers are peskily persistent in adapting to unexpected problems.

"What is it?"

"The Proconsul has placed his guest in charge." Her voice is shaky. "Shall I invoke Protocol Five-Seven–Six-Delta?" Any imperial consul is allowed to appoint whomever they like in charge of a military platoon, but they need special approval from the Imperium before they can replace anyone above the rank of a captain. Technically, Winter can refuse the order and maintain command.

She walks further from Webley's, tracking the signal from the sonic pulses as the children are moved. "No, that's fine. Obey her as you normally would. Oh, and I suggest the castle if you're looking for fortifications."

Ferrin pauses. The silence is heavy and telling of what comes next. "There are Cybermen here. Did— Did the Empire—" She can't bring herself to finish, but Winter hears the questions anyway. _Did the Empire know? Did they know and not warn us? Did they abandon us?_

"No," Winter says as firmly as she can. She wants to explain, but there's no time. Moreover, it would lose her the little trust she's managed to gain from the others, and that doesn't serve anyone's purpose but the Cybermen. "That's not why I'm here." She's here to help out however she can. "Don't detonate, Captain."

It's a gamble telling her not to. Officially, the order to blow up the planet if they can't find and eliminate the Cybermen falls to anyone who can reach the trigger. It's only of those protocols that are meant to supersede everything else, a stop-gap measure that the Empire put into place during the Cyber Wars. Ferrin, more than anyone else in the platoon, is desperate to prove herself the faithful soldier. Winter wants to yell that it doesn't work that way, that there's more to honor than just following orders, but again, there's no time and she doubts Ferrin will listen.

The other woman doesn't say anything before she disconnects. Winter hopes that's a good thing. Silence is opportunity for self-reflection, isn't it?

She should be getting back to the others. There's nothing more she can do here, and there she's at least another pair of watchful eyes and a decent shot. Clara won't remember her, and she'll have no trouble believing that Winter's just another soldier. Except, she hears the Doctor scream as the Cybermites converge on him, and she can't just leave now.

It's a testament to how dilapidated the cyber base is that she can sneak in so easily. Pieces of metal line the left side of the Doctor's face. He keeps switch back and forth from his normal voice to the Cyber Planner's. It seems to take on bits of his personality, calling himself Mr. Clever and boasting about his new capabilities.

From what Winter can tell, they're at a standstill. The Doctor proposes a chess match, offering full control of his brain to whoever wins. It's a dumb wager when the Cyber Planner has a supercomputer's processing power behind him. That's not the point, Winter realizes as Webley fetches them a board. The point is to distract Mr. Clever, to give the Doctor and the others time to figure something out.

If it's a distraction he wants, then Winter can help with that.

"Doctor… why is there no record of you anywhere in the databanks of the Cyberiad?" He moves his knight. "Oh, you're good. You've been eliminating yourself from history. You know, you could be reconstructed by the hole—" He suddenly interrupts himself with a sharp, "Who's there," when Winter makes her presence known.

She steps out into the light. "You could give a girl a complex with a greeting like that."

The Cyber Planner, at least, she thinks it's him, narrows his eyes at her. "Who are you?"

"You mean you don't know? Weren't you just going on about your databanks? Why don't you look me up? Shouldn't be too hard to find out who one little girl is."

"Oh, but something tells me you're not just some little girl." She pulls out her gun. Outwardly and from afar, it looks like an ordinary gun. "Is that supposed to scare me?"

"Nope. Just graze you." The cleaning fluid shoots out, hitting the mechanics glued to the side of the Cyber Planner's face. It's not as effective as it once was, but it's enough to allow the Doctor to wrestle back control. He slaps his gold coated ticket to Hedgewick's over the mites, suppressing Mr. Clever for now.

He glances from the chessboard to her. "How did you know that?"

"Early versions of the Cyber OS were susceptible to shorting out when exposed to things like cleaning fluid and gold. They still keep parts of that old code in the new system."

"Yes, but how did you know?"

She shrugs. "Is now the time?"

"Yes. No. Right, you, Cyber… Webley. And you, kid… things." He turns to the others in the room. The entire time, the three of them have just been standing there, motionless and facing forward. They listen to the Doctor as he's still technically designated as Cyber Planner. "I'll bring the chessboard. Let's get out of here. Coming, er…?"

"Winter," she answers, leading him out.

Natty Longshoe's Comical Castle is on the other side of the amusement park, and they haven't got that much time. Luckily, the two and a half weeks she's spent here is more than enough time to familiarize herself with all the shortcuts. They run, the Doctor pressing a hand to keep the gold ticket stuck to his cheek. "Don't shoot, don't shoot," he yells as they barge in. "I'm nice! Please, don't shoot! Hey, Clara, you haven't let them blow up the planet. Good job."

"Did you get the kids," she asks while the others stare at them strangely. Ha-Ha looks like he wants to make a comment, but Winter shakes her head. "What's going on?"

"Bit of good news/bad news/good news again thing going on. So… Good news—I've kidnapped their Cyber Planner, and right now I'm sort of in control of this Cyberman."

Winter snorts. "You were only able to kidnap him because he's stuck in your head."

"What?"

"Yeah, that's the bad news. And different bad news—the kids are… well, it's complicated."

Clara folds her arms over her chest. "Complicated how?"

"Complicated, as in walking coma. Was that you, by the way, with the pulse," he asks Winter. "I was wondering what that sound was."

"Would you prefer brain death," she shoots back, not liking his tone. Try to help and she gets chewed out for it. Well, it isn't the first time, and she doubts it'll be the last.

"Well, no—"

"Please tell me you can wake them up," Clara stresses.

"Hope so," the Doctor says in a sing-song manner at the same time Winter says "Should be." They exchange glances.

Clara looks back and forth between them before throwing her hands up. "Other good news?"

"Well, in other good news, there are a few more repaired and reactivated Cybermen on the way. And the Cyber Planner's installing a patch for the gold thing. No wait, that isn't good news is it? Um, so… Good news—I have a very good chance of winning my chess match." He holds the folded up board over his head.

"What?"

"Only if you cheat," Winter mumbles under her breath. But again, the point isn't the game, it's the distraction. "We should probably tie you up now." Clara levees the only Anti-Cyber gun they have at her. This close, she won't miss. "Unless you want Mr. Clever free to run loose," Winter adds. Her arms rest at her sides. She thinks if she allows them to move, instinct will take over and she'll either forcibly disarm Clara, attack her first, or teleport out.

"Winter's right, Clara," the Doctor says quickly. He's nervous and talking faster than usual. Mr. Clever must be close to overriding the gold. Clara lowers the gun and he breaks out into another sprint for the throne room, calling back, "Need hands free for chess!"

Exactly two minutes and twelve seconds later, Winter finishes securing the Doctor to the throne, a small table pushed near him so he can lay the chessboard on it. There are still seashells tied to the rope, telling her where it's from. Oddly, the combination is relaxing in its discrepancy against the Doctor's more formal outfit.

"What's that behind your ear," he asks as she pulls back from tying the last knot.

"High frequency sonic patch."

"He's playing chess with himself," Clara asks from a few good feet back.

"And winning," the Doctor says with a grin before he tears off the golden ticket from his face.

The Cyber Planner works his jaw for a moment as if stretching out a kink. "Actually, he has no better than a twenty-five percent chance of winning at this stage in the game. Some very dodgy moves at the beginning. Hello, flesh-girl. Fantastic! I'm the Cyber Planner."

Instead of backing away further, Clara walks up to him, leaning forward a bit to study his face. "Doctor?"

"Afraid not. I'm working the mouth now. Allons-y! Oh, you should see the state of these neurons—he's had some cowboys in here. Ten complete re-jigs."

"You aren't the Doctor." She rearranges her grip on the gun.

"No, but I know who you are. You're the impossible girl. Ooh, he's very interested in you."

"Why am I impossible?"

The Cyber Planner ignores her, attention zooming in on Winter. "But you! Ahh, you. There's nothing about you up here." He reaches up to tap his head, but the ropes only allow his arm to extend so far. Shrugging, he moves on, unconcerned by the restrains. "'Winter' what?"

Clara glances back at her. Winter maintains eye contact as she steps forward until she's nearly pressed up against the table. "That's not the question you should be asking. It's not 'what,' it's 'why.'"

"Why Winter," he questions, cocking his head to the side.

"You tell me, Clever Boy. You're the brains of this operation."

A lazy grin stretches out across his face. "We can always rip the answer from your mind after I win. When we wake we'll strip the both of you down for spare parts, then build a spaceship and move on. I'll have my answer then."

Clara gulps. "More Cybermen?"

"They're waking from their tomb right now. You can either die or live on as one of us."

Winter steps back while Clara engages, glancing down at the source of the scribbling sound. The Doctor's right hand has somehow acquired a pen and notepad. "HIT ME," is scrawled messily. She glances back up, but the Cyber Planner doesn't seem to have noticed.

"The Doctor will stop you," Clara tells him surely.

"He can't even access the lips."

Winter knows how to punch. She knows to use her knuckles, which parts of the face to aim for to inflict maximum damage, and how to strike quick enough not to give warning or chance for retaliation. She also knows how to soften her blows, so really, when the Doctor complains, it's just him being dramatic. Yes, she puts some force behind her punch, but it doesn't even leave a mark.

"Owwwww! Ow! Oh, that hurt!"

Clara spins around to gape at her. "Neural surge," Winter explains.

"Bit of pain," the Doctor adds. "Just what I needed. Thanks."

"Why am I the impossible girl," she asks him, half scared, half confused, and all stubbornness.

The Doctor waves his hand. "It's a thing in my head. I'll explain later."

She grumbles, but knows better than to push. While Clara and the Doctor catch up, Winter heads to the drawbridge to address the platoon. Only Brains and Ha-ha seem to be with them. "Where's the captain," she asks. "And Missy? Beauty?"

The two of them look to the ground, giving her the answer. Porridge is there too, jaw tight and eyes haunted. She wonders how he feels about Webley; it can't be easy, seeing him as he is. She doesn't think they were friends. More likely, they were two people forced together by circumstance for so long that they simply became used to one another. But you don't have to be friends with someone to care about them.

"Sorry ma'am," Ha-Ha eventually mumbles.

"What are our orders now," Brains asks. "Do we detonate?"

Winter looks around. She can appreciate devotion to recreation since the building is designed after an actual castle. Clara's clever for picking it as their base: one entrance, high walls, lots of places to duck for cover or hide. "Nope," she replied, idea forming in her mind. "Absolutely not."

Clara chooses then to announce that they'll be more guests arriving soon. Her eyes are a little red, but there's a fierce glare behind them that tell that she's far from giving up.

"There's at least a dozen more shots left in the gun before it needs to recharge," Brains offers. He doesn't mention that they don't have time to recharge, or that recharging will take fourteen hours.

"There's going to be more than a dozen Cybermen." Winter nods to the thick black cable running along the wall. "Anyone got a pair of rubber gloves."

"What's that," Clara asks.

"Powerline for the park," Porridge replies.

Winter grins. "What d'you think will happen if we drop it into the moat?"

Clara orders it done in a matter of fact tone. The others work carefully to lower the cable into the water, mindful not to accidently fry themselves. Once it's submerged, the electricity crackles to life. Flashes of light dance along and beneath the surface, but it isn't noticeable unless looked for. They raise the drawbridge and retreat back inside. Winter knows that it won't stop the Cybermen permanently. They're too resilient to be permanently taken out by such a straightforward trick. But it'll diminish their numbers and, more importantly, buy them time.

She really hopes the Doctor has a plan.

The soldiers easily fall into a line of defense in the courtyard, practiced from all the drills Winter made them run. She sees Porridge hand Clara some soup to warm her before the Doctor's calling. Automatically, she sets the can down and goes to him, missing the way Porridge's gaze lingers on her back. "Who are you," he asks Winter without looking away. "You're not really a Lieutenant-Colonel."

"Nope," she agrees, shoving her hands in her pockets. Her right hand wraps around the hit of her sword. "If it helps, I have worked a contract job for the Empire before."

He frowns. The type of contract jobs she refers to aren't like the ones you go to temp agencies for. It's less secretarial work and more black-ops, only oftentimes even more illegal and dangerous. Some jobs need flexibility, and soldiers tend to have that trained out of them quickly. "The Empire is very particular in who they hire for those." _I would've remembered your name_ , he means.

There's probably some plan or protocol in place that's meant to keep track of all their employees, no matter what non-disclosures and privacies they promise. Winter's sure they do the best they can, but any contractor worth their salt would never be so easily leashed. The even more clever ones would learn how to use a system like that to their advantage. "I went by a different name. Aria."

That gets Porridge to look at her. Disbelief, confusion, and, if she's not mistaken, a little bit of respect war in his expression. Eventually, disbelief wins. "You can't be. Her last known sighting was over twenty years ago! You'd have to be—"

"Well I have been told I look young for my age," she cuts in. "Your Majesty."

Thunder rumbles in the near distance. No, not thunder, she corrects with a glance to the sky. It's the stomping of Cybermen. She climbs up to the gallery to see what they're up again. Just shy of three million of them march towards the castle.

Clara runs out next to her, slumping against the wall when she sees the opposing troops. Her hand is empty, so Winter figures it's good news/bad news again. Good news: there's no accidentally setting off the massive bomb that will kill them all and destroy the planet. Bad news: there's no blowing up the planet and taking out the last of the Cybermen with it.

"One gun, five hand pulsars, and a planet-smashing bomb that doesn't work anymore." Clara gulps.

"Why not," Brains asks.

"Broken trigger unit."

"But you signed for that."

"How's the chess going," Winter asks. Might as well have the full update on their situation.

"Not sure. Not good, I think," Clara replies nervously.

The first Cyberman reaches the moat and enters without hesitation. It doesn't get more than a few steps before succumbing to the electrical current. The others cheer as the mechanics begin to spark and it slumps forward.

The applause is short-lived. Unfortunately, their trap doesn't work as well as Winter hoped. It doesn't really work at all, to be honest. The Cyberman in the lake straightens out, announcing, "Upgrade in progress." Within seconds it's able to walk as if the water is just plain water. The others follow, splashing wildly as they move through the moat.

"Damn." Clara turns to the others. "Who's our best shot?"

Ha-Ha steps forward. "Probably it's me."

She hands him the gun. "Shoot any of them who make it across. The rest of you, take defensive positions. Porridge?"

He pauses, letting the others go ahead of him so they can take their places. "Yes?"

"Keep yourself safe." As he hurries away, Clara anxiously bites her lip. She does a marvelous job keeping her face straight to the others, but Winter can tell that the stress of her leadership role isn't doing her any good. Clara is good in charge, but it sucks being the responsible one when you're in the weaker position.

"I keep thinking," Clara starts to say, then doesn't finish.

"What is it," Winter prods.

"My friends a lot better at this. Leading, fighting, planning. I keep thinking that if they were here instead of me, we wouldn't be in this mess. They'd've stopped the Cybermen."

It's not very hard to figure out that Clara's talking about the Doctor. There's no other person her "friend" could be. but Clara's wrong in her assessment of his skill. Sure, the Doctor's clever and resourceful, but even he couldn't drive off three million Cybermen on his own. One of his best strengths is luck, but luck isn't a talent, it's something that happens to you, and it shouldn't be relied on to solve everything.

Problem is, she doesn't know how to tell Clara all of this without giving away too much. Funny how she doesn't know how to be close to someone without coming off as aggressive or suspicious. Yeah, "funny" is the right word.

There is one more plan she's already considered. One more ace up the sleeve. She knows Porridge is considering it from how he keeps eyeing the bomb. She also knows that he's fighting with himself. Freedom is a strong driver, and if he activates the bomb he might never get the chance to be free again. He'll decide to use it in the end, of that she's sure of. She just doesn't know when "the end" is for him.

In the meanwhile, the Cybermen are beginning to break down the doors. Winter and Clara move downstairs to join the others on the ground. While Clara fits a pulsar on her hand, Winter pulls her sword out from her pocket. It extends soundlessly. As cool as it would be to have a real life lightsaber, it's also impractical in the noise and glow.

Besides, her sword is much cooler. Adamantite steel is lightweight and nearly unbreakable, and the blade vibrates soundlessly at a frequency high enough that she hasn't come across anything it can't cut through yet. Shock absorbers are built into the hilt so it doesn't hinder the fine movement.

It easily cleaves through the armor of the first Cyberman she hits. And the next, and next, and next. Winter sinks into the rhythm of the battle like it's the warm bath she's been craving for weeks. Run, jump, twist, slash. Block, thrust, spin, duck, strike.

"I've got no charge left," Ha-Ha yells.

Clara picks up a mace from somewhere and swings wildly. The Cyberman grabs hold and rips it out of her hands, tossing it carelessly off to the side. Winter slashes through its stretched out arm before kicking it back into the unit behind it. More and more are swarming in. She spies Porridge clutching the bomb as he runs through the castle entrance.

They inch backwards as the Cybermen advance; there's too many of them for Winter to engage one and expect the others not to take advantage of her distraction. "Please stand by—you will be upgraded. Welcome to the Cyberiad."

Hands stretched out, there's little choice but to keep backing up. Clara lets out a soft "oof" as her back hits the wall.

"You will be upgraded… you will be upgraded…"

Inches from reaching them, the Cybermen all freeze. Winter's brow furrows in confusion. She can still hear the whirl of their circuits running, so they haven't been suddenly deactivated. Actually, it's humming quite loudly. Quite a lot of processing power is being used, which can only mean that whatever the Doctor's doing, it's working.

"Less cheering, more running," she advises the group, leading the way into the castle. They fall behind as she sprints ahead. The frozen Cybermen won't stay frozen forever, and she prefers to be off-planet when they unfreeze.

"Three moves," the Doctor boasts. It's the pitch that tells her it's really him. Mr. Clever tends to subconsciously speak with a throatier voice. Or maybe it's not unintentional and he's just being dramatic. Either way, he's very adamant in denying the Doctor is three moves away from checkmate.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the sonic. "Move one—turn on sonic screwdriver." Winter peels the patch off from behind her ear, wincing as it irritates her skin. She throws it at the Doctor, who catches it in his free hand. His thumb presses against the back of it. She designed it so that it needs body heat to turn on, just in case any Cybers got a hold of it and tried to incorporate into their arsenal. "Move two—activate patch." Finally, he holds the sonic to the patch. "Move three—amplify patch." With more force than it needs, the Doctor slaps the patch to his temple. His left hand tries to stop him, but he manages to overpower the Cyber Planner's attempt. "See ya."

His body jerks as shocks that would render a human unconscious run through him. A loud bang echoes as his head falls face-down onto the table. As he sits up, face screwed with pain, the cybernetics fall from his face. "Ow! You really know how to pack a punch."

Winter smirks. Webley is down, and the kids are a little shaken but otherwise alright. Behind her, the others finally catch up. Clara looks back and forth between them, mouth slightly agape in confusion. "What would you have done if I hadn't showed up just then," Winter asks.

"Dunno. Make do with the pulsar I guess. Maybe that would've hurt less. Now can someone untie me, please?"

"Do you think I'm pretty," Clara asks for some strange reason.

"No! You're too short and bossy, and your nose is all funny."

Surprisingly, this is apparently the right answer. Clara unties him with a, "Good enough. What happened to the Cyber Planner?"

"Out of my head and redistributed across three million Cybermen. About to wake them up, kill us, and start constructing a spaceship." The ropes fall to his feet as he gets up, rushing towards the bomb. "We need to destroy this planet before they can get off it. Okay. It has a fallback voice activation."

"The captain," Ha-Ha says. "But she's dead."

"Or we can ask Porridge," Winter suggests. The previously unconscious man sits up.

"Oh, come on," Angie says, puffing with the chance to show off. "It's obvious. He looks exactly like he does on the coin and on the waxwork, except they made him a bit taller, but… Look, am I the only one paying attention to a _nything_ around here?"

"You are full of surprises," Clara acquiesces before turning to Porridge. He nods once, confirming Angie's statement. "So you can save us?"

He looks down at the ground for a moment, eyes hard and mind made up. The Doctor sets the bomb down at his feet. "We all die in the end. Does it matter how? I don't want to be Emperor. If I activate that bomb, it's all over."

"And if you don't, three million Cybermen will spread across the galaxy. Isn't that worth dying for?"

Porridge sighs. "The bomb, the throne, it's all connected. I just have to say, 'This is Emperor Ludens Nimrod Kendrick, called Longstaff the forty-first, the defender of humanity, Imperator of known space. Activate the Desolator.'" The bomb beeps as it counts down. "And it's done."

Winter hears stomping in the distance. The Cybermen must be up and running again. At the sound, the others all tense. Except Porridge. He just continues to morosely stare at the bomb as the Doctor scans it with his sonic. "It'll blow in eighty seconds," he continues. "Easily long enough for the Imperial Flagship to locate me from my identification, warp-jump into orbit, and transmat us to the State Room."

A flash of light is accompanied by the sensation of falling. Suddenly, they aren't standing in the throne room of a comical castle on an abandoned planet, but in a regal if rigid-looking room on a spaceship. The Doctor quickly asks for them to beam up his TARDIS. Porridge nods to one of the technicians before finishing the countdown.

The others crowd around the window as the planet blows. Winter doesn't want to see it. Even abandoned, it's too sad to watch.

She stands off to the side as Clara and Porridge say their goodbyes. Things are a little awkward when Porridge proposes. The Doctor, of course, tries to butt in. Angie breaks the tension flawlessly when she complains about how dumb Clara is for turning down the chance to be "queen of the universe", declaring that one day the title will belong to her.

She thinks about sneaking off. She's done her part; it's time to go now. She's also terrible at goodbyes. All it would take is a press of a button and she'd be off. But she can feel the Doctor's gaze on her and it's so heavy. She imagines roots growing from her feet, tying her down, grounding her. He leads her wordlessly into the TARDIS and she knows she can choose not to go with, but she follows anyway.

"Why Winter," he asks after they drop Clara and the kids off. A slight frown tugs his lips. She knows he's disappointed from her lack of reaction to the TARDIS. It causes him to study her with renewed vigor and she curses herself for not having the forethought to fake surprise and awe.

Out of all the console rooms she's seen, Winter thinks this one suits the Doctor best and least. It's all sleek metal, cool lighting, Gallifreyan symbols and exposed, advanced circuitry. She takes her time reading the words and studying the layout of the console before allowing her gaze to fall back on him. It's a performance, and she acts it out flawlessly, capping it with a small, sly grin. "Why what?"

He blinks, faltering for a moment and breaking the serious atmosphere. "No, that's what I'm asking. I'm asking 'Why Winter.'"

"But why are you asking?"

This coaxes out a frown, just like she expects. "I don't know, you're the one who brought it up. You told him—the Cyber Planner—Mr. Clever—to figure it out."

"What if I told you it's because no one likes winter," she begins slowly, stepping closer until there's only half a metre between them. Half a metre is a good place to stop. Close enough that she can talk without raising her voice and far enough that he can't reach out for her without giving her enough time to move away. "Because it's cold and dark. Because winter is the time when things end and wither and die. What if I say that I chose that name because people are afraid of wintertime and what it means and I thought, 'I want them to fear me like that?'"

"I'd say you were lying," he replies without missing a beat.

She refuses to let her breath catch in her throat. Without dropping the act, she looks at him coyly. "You sound awfully sure about that. Especially considering you don't know me."

"No," he agrees and she has to force her face still. "But I have a feeling about you. There's something… familiar."

She needs to leave. Right now. The roots retract, her feet are no longer anchored. Winter punches in coordinates she's long since memorized into her vortex manipulator. The Doctor looks surprised, only noticing how what she has tucked under the sleeve of her jacket. "I'm sure it's just your imagination."


	5. Aliens of London

**This is so late and I'm so sorry. The wifi at my house has been down for the last week and a half and we don't know when we can fix it. I've been stuck going to Starbucks and the library to write and edit this. Hopefully, everything will be resolved soon, but the next chapter might be late too. In the meanwhile, here's 4k of me taking out my frustrations on fictional characters. Enjoy!**

 **Again, I own nothing.**

* * *

Winter doesn't like to drink often. Alcohol tastes abhorrent—why not just pour battery acid down your throat instead? Getting drunk is also reckless. It dulls the senses, slows reaction times, and makes people belligerent more often than not. There are easier ways if she wants to get caught, like painting a target on her back, or sending out a massive transmission of her exact whereabouts, or simply going to the nearest police station and picking any one of her aliases to reveal herself as. But sometimes even Winter needs a certain level of inebriation to tolerate the 4D Picasso painting that is her life. Those times, she goes to Lethean.

As far as bars go, it isn't bad. The lighting is low enough to give the illusion of privacy and secrecy, but also bright enough that she doesn't have to struggle to see anything. Most of the furniture is relatively clean. Not that Winter's much of a neat freak, but she likes being about to sit and rest her hands on something not sticky with what she hopes is just beer. The usual patrons are neither high class enough to be snobby or the sort of lowlives that make ruckuses wherever they go. They all understand the concept of confidentiality, and Mercy has made it clear that she doesn't tolerate outside business within her walls.

Speaking of, Mercy's the reason why Winter favors Lethean when she gets into these moods. She did the owner a favor once, and now Mercy lets her drink for free. It helps that Winter will sometimes bring her even more illicit alcohol whenever she comes to visit. Her travels take her all over, and it's not hard to pick up a bottle now and then. Especially when she knows it'll make Mercy's skin flush that satisfied shade of red.

"You sure know your way to a woman's heart," she coos as she takes the three bottles of Kygrian moonshine. Mercy ducks into the back room to put them somewhere safe until the next full moon. When she comes back, her skin is once again a pale blue to complement her dark dress. Her two left eyes wink as she pours another drinker his shots before walking over to a trio of Tritovores with a "What can I getcha?"

Winter takes a long drink from her cup, then makes a face. Mercy really knows how to cover up the bitter taste, but it still clings to her tongue, lingering even when the fruitiness of the concoction fades. There's another reason why she likes coming here—Mercy's got an excellent memory for her drinking preferences, and she's one of the few that Winter's interacted with enough to retain a memory of her. It does take some prompting though, and she tries not to let too long pass between their visits.

It also helps that Mercy keeps one of her cards with her behind the bar. For some reason, having a physical reminder of Winter that people can see or hold helps them remember her. Granted, there's also the fact that Mercy's not a time traveler. Usually, her memories are foggy and distant until something, like Winter showing up again, jogs them. But it's nice not to always be starting from scratch.

A bulky torso, expensively clothed, leans onto the bar in her peripheral vision. Winter bites back a sigh. _Here we go again._

"Haven't seen you here before."

"You won't be seeing anything if you don't back off, Doorn."

She doesn't have to turn to know that his thick brows are furrowed in confusion. "How'd you—"

She starts to tune him out after that, having heard it all before. Eventually, Mercy comes back and fixes him a glare. The threat of being cut off drives Doorn away, but not until after Winter starts developing a headache. She taps the counter and Mercy begins to mix her another drink. There's mango juice in this one if her nose isn't mistaken. "Don't you get tired of that lug hitting on you every time you come in here?"

"You have no idea."

"Why so down? Someone confess to you or something?"

Winter stares down at her new glass. The liquid is a bright yellow, and Mercy's added a little blue umbrella and a pink straw for décor. She doesn't really care what her drinks look like so long as they do their job, but this one, inextricably, reminds her of Rose Tyler. It's the colour scheme, she decides, and suddenly her thoughts are jumping in the direction of the Doctor.

"I made a mistake," she tells Mercy.

In the beginning, it had been simple curiosity driving her to travel along the Doctor's timeline. She just wanted to see what sort of person he was, and what he did to go about inspiring awe and terror in equal turns. What she ended up finding is a bit of a disappointment. The Doctor is far from the dashing hero or horrible villain she always pictured. He's sort of hopeless, actually, always managing to get himself in the middle of the mess. If life were a painting then the Doctor would be the colour clinging to the brush, getting mixed in with every stroke and corners where he has no business being.

It's an accident the first time she saves him. Only after, when it was too late to take it back, does she even realize herself what she's doing. She keeps at it because she's surprisingly good at it, and it annoys people she likes making trouble for. The rush is indescribable, whether it's materializing just in time to grab his hand so he doesn't fall to his death, or if it's acting out a plan weeks in the making, behind the scenes and out of sight.

And then she has to go and do something stupid like start talking to him. Then, it stops being mildly annoying that she has to keep introducing herself. Then, she thinks one night, when they're waiting out a firestorm and the sky is bathed in beautiful blues and reds and oranges, _it won't be so bad if this lasts a little longer_.

She should never have allowed herself to get that complacent.

She still hasn't gone back to Henrik's yet. It's getting a little ridiculous at this point, but she can't seem to bring herself to go back. "I got a job in retail," she says to change the topic. Mercy misunderstands and thinks that's the mistake she's made and Winter doesn't have the energy to explain it to her. She doesn't want to if this becomes one of the conversations Mercy doesn't remember. That happens sometimes. Sometimes, Mercy's no different from the Doctor when it comes to forgetting.

"Well that don't sound like you at all."

"It's not" she agrees, taking a sip of the drink. The mango juice is a bit too sweet, and it only makes the sour tang of the berries that much more noticeable. Again, the bitterness of the alcohol stays on her tongue, mixing all three tastes into a vaguely unpleasant concoction.

"No," Mercy asks. Her skin is a pale yellow, betraying her amusement.

"I'm trying to get drunk, Mercy. If you wanna shock me sober, why not just pour the drink over my head?"

"The Griffs like it." She takes back the cup and starts mixing something new. "But back to what you were saying before—sales? You?" Mercy looks her up and down. Winter's clothes are still dirty and ripped from her excursion into the marshlands of Hathi. She was almost eaten by a swamp monster there.

"Oh, shut up. It's not a permanent thing."

"Honey, I wouldn't believe that even if you said it was. I mean, how long you been working there? A week? Two? And you're back here already. You wouldn't last two months."

She sips her new drink. Much better. "Yeah, well, thanks for the vote of confidence. Next time I come across fancy liquors whose brewing instructions have been lost, I'll just keep them to myself."

Mercy gasps. One hand comes up to the center of her chest while the other two cover the places humans have kidneys. She has hearts there too. "After all we've been through? Darling, I thought you cared about me!"

Carmille Saint-Saens's Danse Macabre starts playing before she can reply. Loudly. A few heads turn in the bar, but most of them are uninterested. Mercy has one delicate eyebrow raised as Winter sighs, shuts the music off, and downs the rest of her drink in one go. Her eyes water, her throat burns, her taste buds want to crawl off and die somewhere, but she can feel the buzz beneath her skin. "Duty calls."

"Sure you're okay to drive," Mercy asks as she slings her bag over her shoulder.

Winter turns back to grin at her. "Who said anything about driving?" She jumps using the vortex manipulator as soon as the door swings shut behind her.

It feels a bit like skipping, if she has to draw a comparison. Certainly, it takes a little bit to get used to and get right. Vortex manipulators aren't like TARDISes, they take a bit of the wearer's energy with each trip. There's also a momentary sense of gravity losing its hold on you, of lifting off of the ground and just going up and up. But then you land, of course. Then gravity wins. Then, the trip is over and you're falling to the ground until next time, chasing that rush.

Danse Macabre is one of the warnings she's set for the Doctor. Each regeneration has his own song, so she knows roughly where in his life she's headed. It's only supposed to go off if there's a danger to his life, something she didn't catch earlier. Now, it's drawing her to London in the year 2006. Winter purposely stops the trip a little early, touching down outside a fancy conference room hastily prepared. All sorts of people buzz around inside, and the name of the group is projected up on the screen.

UNIT. Winter can work with UNIT. She has, in the past, when the situation called for it. First thing's first—she needs to change. And find that consultant ID they gave her last time. It's the English branch that's here, no surprise there, but she can always say that one of the other higher ups called her in.

Ten minutes later, she's as clean and swamp-free as a person can get using a bathroom sink. Her hair is pulled back, and she had on a pair of glasses that make her look slightly older. The stiff outfit also helps there: white collared shirt, black blazer, black skirt. She looks early twenties instead of how she usually looks, and that's good enough for the science side of UNIT.

As for the military side, well, it's amazing what they let slide under the "crazy-genius-liability" label.

"Sure you're in the right place, sweetheart?"

Winter tries not to let her irritation show. Even an organization as forward thinking as UNIT can't be totally free of the occasional arsehole. She hates the sickly sweet and obviously false tone of his voice, the mocking tilt, the way his hand inches to his gun because violence is the first and only option he'll consider to something displeasing. But she doesn't want to cause a scene and she can't afford to be barred or left behind. Besides, she puts a lot of effort into maintaining her cover at UNIT, and she doesn't want to have to start from scratch because of this guy.

Holding up her ID, she tilts her head down slightly and looks up. The man—a lieutenant if his markings are correct—is satisfied with her apparent submission. "Yes? The French branch sent me?" This, of course, sets off a lot of grumbling and complaining. It helps that the heads of France and Great Brittan's UNIT teams are in a Cold War stalemate and keep trying to one-up the other. Hands—his are like clubs, and he rests one a little too low on her back—unnecessarily guides her fully into the room and to an empty seat. He lingers behind her when the briefing finally starts.

The video footage is a little shaky, put together from CCTV and phone cameras, but it's rather clear what happens: an unidentified flying object crashing into the Thames, hitting Big Ben on the way. A team has already been sent to examine the body found inside. Winter spares a moment to regret not joining that instead of coming directly here. They're just waiting for now, apparently, until someone comes to fetch them for a meeting of experts at Downing Street.

She leans back in her seat and pops a stick of gum in her mouth. Getting drunk sounded like such a good idea at the time, but now the headache is kicking in. Instant hangovers are another reason she likes to drink. Whatever buzz people tend to laud when they talk about getting sloshed never lasts long for her, if it kicks in at all. What she wouldn't give for one of those hangover cures they develop in the twenty-third century.

"Are you alright," the girl besides her asks. "You look a bit flustered." Her face is nearly perfectly square, and she keeps twisting her hands in her lap. Winter recognizes the nervous tick for what it is, but why is she nervous? Hands chuckles behind her at something another soldier says and the girl stiffens further.

"Excited," Winter says not very convincingly. "You? You seem a bit nervous."

"Same here," the girl lies, nearly jumping out of her seat when Hands's chuckle grows into a full laugh. "Tina Yeong," she says, trying to cover the reaction up.

"Aria Delmar," Winter says, shaking her hand. "Tea? I saw a place by the lobby." Mostly she wants to get out of the room, and she thinks Tina could do with some distance from Hands too.

Tina looks around the room, eyes wide. She's young, and probably new at this. UNIT hired her for a reason, and Winter doesn't doubt that she's smart. But it's hard to be an expert in a field that most people deny existing. She's much better suited for the later iterations of the organization, when the science sections expand and the militaristic responses are downsized. "But, what about— I mean, what if…"

"What if they leave without us?" She nods. "It's not like we don't know where they're going," Winter points out. "And it's only tea. We'll be gone ten minutes max."

Tina agrees to join her in the end. They leave and come back without anyone noticing, and it's another forty-five minutes before the bus arrives to take them to Number 10. Winter imagines that this is what it feels like to be a kid on a fieldtrip in this time. Tina chats with her the entire way, telling her about her schooling, about why she wants to study aliens. Winter manages to deflect most of the questions she asks, but Tina is very persistent once she gets past her shyness.

"Where did you go to school, Aria?"

She can't remember the name she put down. She knows that UNIT's profile of her says she was homeschooled for her younger years, but the only thing she can remember about Aria Delmar's higher education is that it was some sort of private school. "I went abroad," she settles with. Tina nods and starts talking about how she's always wanted to travel, and when the best time to go for this or that country is.

That conversation carries them all the way to Downing Street. Reporters, paparazzi, and military men line the street. Inside, political aids scurry about, trying to hold down the fort while it attempts to fly away. Someone thrusts an ID badge at her while she's busy looking around. There's no sign of the Doctor yet, but the night is young. It can't be a coincidence that UNIT and every other self-proclaimed alien expert is gathered at the UK's government headquarters to give briefings on first contact and the Doctor isn't involved.

All the new people has put Tina back into shy mode, which Winter is grateful for. She likes the other woman, she just doesn't have the energy to engage with her right now. She mostly wants to go in, save the Doctor, then pop right back to Lethean because she is both too sober and too drunk to deal with her life right now.

People begin to file into the large room prepared for them. She tells Tina to go first and save her a seat. Future Prime Minister Harriet Jones is talking to one of the aids who's doing his best to brush her off. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the Doctor walks through the doors, Rose Tyler by his side. Winter lingers long enough to see him handed an ID of his own before making her way inside.

Tina waves from a spot in the upper-middle half of the room. She's practically vibrating in her seat with a mixture of nerves and excitement. There are two people at the front with a chair and podium for them. Both men are rather portly, and neither does a very good job of looking properly grim, scared, worried, or confused.

Winter flips through the materials provided for her and suddenly she knows where and when she is. The urge to groan is nearly overwhelming—this is what she came here for? A family of criminals trying to destroy the Earth so they can sell it? Discreetly, she unclips one end of her ID off and lets the entire thing fall to the ground. Luckily, she still has the sonic pulses that she made for Angie and Artie. They're mostly drained, but there's still a bit of a kick left.

The Doctor slips in seconds before they start, taking a seat near the back on the opposite side of the room. "Ladies and Gentlemen. I'd like to have your attention please," Asquith, one of the men at the front, says into the microphone. "As you can see from the summaries in front of you, the ship had one porcine occupant—"

"Now the _really_ interesting bit happened three days ago," the Doctor interrupts unabashedly. "See? Filed away under every other business. The North Sea—the satellite detected a signal, a little blip of radiation at one hundred fathoms like there was something down there… You were just about to investigate and the next thing you know, this happens—spaceships, pigs—massive diversion—from what?"

She rolls her eyes. Tina's to enraptured to notice, and it's not like anyone else is paying her any attention. The Doctor's in complete show-off mode, engaging the entire room. He doesn't even notice the glance Asquith exchanges with Joseph, the man beside him. Or how Joseph's hand slips into his pocket to pull out a remote. Winter kicks her ID a little further away and prepares herself.

"If aliens fake an alien crash and an alien pilot, what do they get," the Doctor asks. "Uh. They get us. It's not a diversion, it's a trap. This is all about us. Alien experts—the only people with knowledge how to fight them gathered together in one room." His eyes go wide at the realization. The grandstanding comes to a stop as Joseph lets out a loud fart."Excuse me, do you mind not farting while I'm saving the world?"

"Would you rather silent but deadly?" He and Asquith snicker.

Moving out from behind the podium, Asquith takes off his hat to reveal the zipper on his forehead. He pulls the tab, letting a bright light shine through the opening. Joseph continues to laugh as the other man pulls down the skin suit until it crumples to the ground. He stands taller now, green skinned with large claws at the end of his fingers and bulbous eyes. A collar encircles his neck—compression field.

"We are the Slitheen," he announces, voice distorted by the crude translator.

"Thank you all for wearing your ID cards." Joseph cackles. He holds up the remote and clicks it. "They'll help to identify the bodies."

Electricity bathes the room, overtaking everyone inside. the sounds of jerks and half-bitten off screams fill Winter's ears, and the horrid smell of flesh beginning to burn clogs her nose. She rips off the tag from around Tina's neck, ignoring the dark red mark it leaves. The other girl falls to the floor, unconscious but still alive. The Doctor screams, on his knees from the pain. He'll last longer than everyone else due to his Time Lord biology, but the others are dying and some are probably already dead.

At least she doesn't have to worry about explaining herself this time. The pain distracts him as she flips one of the coins at Asquith's collar, and the other at the remote in Joseph's hand. They hit their mark and start the feedback loop. Asquith isn't the only one who screams—Joseph does too as the electrical current that engulfed the others fades and instead attacks the Slitheen family. Downsides of a linked compression field.

Winter slumps on the ground, pretending to be among the injured as the Doctor shakes off the last of the after effects and stands. His ID tag goes slithering across the floor and he runs to the door. He'll be back soon, no doubt, with guards and soldiers. She takes a moment to feel Tina's pulse, making sure the other girl is at least alive before she skips out. Her job is done, the Doctor's not dead, and she has better things to do than stick around.

She doesn't head back to Lethean right away. Her first stop is to the ship she acquired from her job on Mori V some months ago. She'll have to abandon it soon, or maybe sell it. Or, as more likely, she'll use it as a diversion for one of her upcoming escapes or faked deaths. She's been feeling eyes on her ever since she met with Jack. It's always a risk, going back to someone she's met before, especially someone connected to the Doctor, but he's worth it.

The ship is rather big for just one person. The entire thing is automated, so Winter doesn't really have to worry about upkeep or cleaning out the filters. The lights are programed to stay off unless she specifically activates them. That, or if there's a breech that doesn't match her bio-signature. It's one of her more paranoia driven security measures, but she's glad for it, because she knows the moment she materializes in the cockpit that she's not alone.

The lights are on.

She unclips the necklace, harmless looking but actually thin strands of titanium wires weaved together, and slips it under the cuff of her vortex manipulator. Her sword is already secure in the holster under her skirt. She doesn't pull it out just yet. Rare as it is, sometimes uninvited guests aren't people trying to kill her. It won't do to take off the head of a client, or god forbid, someone she actually cares about.

It's not. Of course it's not. Her luck is never that good. The cameras are out, but the intruder only thinks to knock out the relevant one. It tells Winter exactly where she is—her room. There's another camera in there, hidden among the few trinkets inside. the feed connects to a device separate from the ship's system. She's human—blonde, dark eyed, on the tall side and sturdily built—with some extra modifications. There's the signature whirl of cybernetic components, probably a prosthetic limb with a fitted weapon. Ridges line her back, and the skin of her left side is scaly. Definitely some genetic splicing going on there. Winter bets it's for extra strong strength and some form of venom, but she won't rule out other possibilities.

She charges into the room, catching Blondie off guard when she doesn't strike out, but jumps instead. Winter's legs wrap around her shoulder and torso as she pulls out the makeshift garrote and winds it around her neck. Leaning back, it's easy to let gravity do its thing and pull her down, cutting of Blondie's airflow. Unfortunately, the trespasser isn't not a complete amateur. Once she finally realizes what's going on, Blondie throws herself on her back, and Winter is forced to let go or be crushed. Abandoning the wire, she leaps away and pulls out her sword instead.

They exchange a few blows. She's right about the prosthetic arm, and the blaster in it. Whatever it's made of, it's very sturdy. Probably some Adamantite alloy. The pure stuff is extremely rare; even her sword isn't completely pure, but it's stronger than Blondie's arm. Cracks in the casing are starting to spread from where they clash. Blondie realizes this, and strikes out with her left arm. Her nails are more like claws, and it looks like Winter is right about the venom too since she can see some sort of opaque fluid coating them.

Unable to bring her sword back up in time, Winter kicks out instead, using the sole of her shoe. Blondie thrusts the blaster in her face, muzzle already lit up and whining loudly. She cranes her neck and headbutts her, ripping a cry from Blondie's lips as her nose cracks under the pressure. Blood gushes everywhere, Winter can feel the warm fluid drying on her face, and the shot goes wide. She swings her leg out, tripping the other woman, then cuts off her weaponized arm before she can think to shoot again.

She whistles sharply. Five metal bars that were arranged in a star on the wall fly off and restrain Blondie at her ankles, remaining wrist, neck, and waist. She screams, struggling futilely to slip or force her way out. Winter whistles again, low and drawn out. The restrains shrink until she stops, red faced with exertion. "Go on," she spits out, "kill me. It won't make a difference."

Winter doesn't respond. She picks up arm, intending to study the design and mechanics. Keeping Blondie is a liability; she can't just drop her off at the nearest planet, but she won't just kill her either. The modifications mean she's not just an ordinary woman though. She's a hit man, maybe an assassin, and probably a bounty hunter. All three are lines of work that garner enemies, and Winter's sure there's someone she can foster Blondie onto, or a long list of crimes she can atone for in prison.

The restraints have a secondary feature, activated by yet another type of whistle. Winter knows the exact moment the needle bites into Blondie's skin from the way she grunts. It's a harmless sedative, but fast acting. She's out in seconds, and she'll stay like that for a good long while.

For now, Winter dumps the arm on her desk, activates a small containment field around it in case there are any other tricks, and wanders off to the bathroom. If the universe refuses to let her get drunk, the least it can do is let her relax in the bath. God knows she's earned it from the number of people that've tried killing her in the past forty-eight hours.


	6. Rose

**I own nothing**

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Unless it's preceded by the words "pan," "hot," or, in one memorable case, "pickled," no known culture in the universe actually considers cake an appropriate breakfast food. That being said, Winter doesn't care what anyone thinks, and after the two weeks she's just had, she thinks she deserves a little reward for surviving. And it's such a shame to waste such a heavenly cake now that she's already bought it. The cream tastes more like spun sugar—sweet without the oily residue it usually leaves in her mouth when it's this light. The frosting-to-cake ratio is perfect, and the actual cake layers themselves are fluffy, moist, and just dense enough that it sits happily in her belly, leaving her feeling full and sated.

It takes longer than it probably should to eat her breakfast, but there's no harm in savoring good food. Cake aside, things are finally starting to feel like normal again, which pretty much means she's expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment. After three days skipping through more decades that she cares to think about, she's feeling the time traveler equivalent of jet lag. Temper short, and lid just barely covering her rising panic, she spends half a day recuperating and the rest doing damage control. The automatic memory wipes handle most of the cleanup, but there are still a fair amount of loose ends to tie up. Once she's established herself in her new environment to her satisfaction, Winter sleeps for twelve hours like the dead.

Blondie is dealt with and gone, locked away in prison for various counts of assassination and trafficking. Winter's positive she manages to cover her tracks well enough that anyone else coming out of the woodwork for her will find their leads drying up and dead-ending. She knows who sent her attacker and why, she just can't believe they were so close without her noticing. The idea of getting caught is enough to make her want to bury her head in the sand for the next ten years. But she's also petulant and easily bored, so like hell she's just going to turn tail and hide.

Finishing the last of her milk, she rinses out her dishes slowly in the sink. Her shift at Henrik's starts in thirty minutes, and while she's not looking forward to it, she's not dreading it with the same heaviness she felt after that first week. When she teleports into the alley about three blocks away, the air is crisp and the sky suggests sun in the afternoon.

It isn't spring yet, but it's getting there. Stores are already changing their displays, and Henrik's is no different. The mannequins are dressed in skirts and dresses, shorts and t-shirts rather than sweaters and heavy jackets. There's a banner hanging near the front door advertising a beginning of spring sale. She can see it on people's faces as they walk by—they smile wider, laugh more easily. There's a bounce in their steps and a rush in their voices as they chatter. It isn't just the customers either, her colleagues are also cheerier. Warren the cashier offers to punch in a coupon voucher when he otherwise wouldn't have said a word, and Zoey actually smiles at Winter when she pops by to put away the clothes that have been hanging on the reject cart for God knows how long.

Unlike what seems like everyone else in the world, Winter is not in a good mood. Weariness clings to her limbs and lethargy sinks into her bones. She breathes in grey, colorless and dull, and she can't say why. There's nothing that sets her off, no big disaster or nasty experience to explain it. The day feels long and drawn out and when lunch rolls around, she's hungry but doesn't feel like eating. Nothing catches her interest as she browses the menu of a nearby café. Soup and bread is what she goes with, but it all tastes faraway, like it's someone else's tongue and she's only trying to imagine as they describe the food to her.

She wants to hate these moods, but even that feels like too much of an effort. By closing time, despite her starting the day with as much optimism as a person like her can have, all she wants is to crawl in bed and sleep. She runs a security check of her new residence, skips dinner, and falls asleep before her head even hits the pillow.

But of course, not even that is peaceful. It starts out that way, or at least, she thinks it does. She dreams in impressions and sensations until a series of thuds causes her adrenaline to spike because someone is on the roof. Someone is walking across it, taking the creaking fire escape down to her floor. Someone is sliding the window open and walking through her bedroom and she can't move.

Her arms are like bricks and her fingers won't so much as twitch no matter how loudly her brain yells at them. There's a blaster in the top drawer of the bedside table, and the hilt of her sword is tucked beneath the pillow next to her. Even without weapons, her hand-to-hand proficiency is nothing to laugh at, but none of it matters if she can't get up. Not even her eyes listen. They won't open, won't let her see what's coming or who's with her. Winter wants to scream. She wants to rage and lash out and fight.

Consciousness is a fight she's struggling to maintain. Even what little awareness she has now threatens to slip out of her fingers. Every time she gets a little bit closer to regaining control of her body, it's effortlessly taken from her like a treat on a stick that's forever pulling away.

The footsteps stop and she knows without looking that the intruder is standing at the foot of her bed. She knows. She can feel their eyes on her, feel it like the point of a blade just millimetres from her skin. There's still time; time for her to get up, time to get out. She can— She can—

She wakes up altogether not violently enough for the nightmare she's just had. There's nothing but of place in the room or anywhere else in the flat she's renting. Her bed sheets aren't even really messy. The windows are shut and secure from last night's check. The clock says it's nine past six in the morning and she still has a while before she has to get ready for her shift at eight. A dream then—it's all just a dream. Probably just the normal creaking of a building combined with sleep paralysis to make one terrifying experience. No one was on the roof or in her room, it's just her mind waking up before her body and panicking.

It's just her imagination.

She repeats it to herself over and over, but it's still not enough to convince herself. Her mind is in overdrive, hypervigilant and overcompensating. Her body follows, reacting to the slightest things, expecting an ambush from every which way. It's exhausting and embarrassing because she feels ridiculous. She knows that she's as safe as she can be where she is. Winter knows how to clean up after herself, knows that there's nothing left in where's she's been to lead back to where she is now. They can send as many bounty hunters and assassins as they want, but it's no use when they can't find her.

She's never going back.

But her subconscious refuses to listen. Her watchful state stretches into the next day. It stretches two days, three, five, a week. Work is littered with tiny mistakes because she's too preoccupied with determining potential threats. They mostly go unnoticed except for Winter, and when she does catch them, it only worsens her mood. Only any normal day she can do her job half-asleep, but she's suddenly clumsy and careless. Every little thing screams at her that she's going to get caught.

" _This is a customer service announcement: the store will be closing in one hour Thank you."_

If she believed in a higher power, Winter would be thanking it right now. Today is the day, _finally_. The anticipation has been building ever since the Autons started installing the relay on the roof last Friday, and it hasn't been helping her nerves none. But she can finally kiss this miserable excuse for a job goodbye.

She has to remind herself to take her time as she empties the changing room of clothes left behind and sorts them on her rack. The finish line is in sight, but she's not there yet. If she acts too soon, she could tip off the Autons. This is where the Doctor meets Rose, and she isn't sure the universe can handle them not meeting. It isn't a fixed point, but the consequences of them not traveling together would ripple through the Doctor's timeline affect everything she knows about him. Not to mention the affect it would have on his future companions is anyone's guess.

" _This is a customer service announcement: the store will be closing in thirty minutes. Thank you."_

Rose is looking up at the speakers, and if the look on her face is any indication, she's just as anxious as Winter is to get out of here. They haven't spoken much in the time Winter has been at Henrik's. In fact, she's surprised if the other girl even knows her name. They're most meaningful exchange might be that time Rose said she liked Winter's hair, and that conversation took all of one minute as they walked together to the door after work.

" _This is a customer service announcement: the store will be closing in five minutes. Thank you."_

Slinging her back over her shoulder, Winter makes for the door. "Hold up," a rough voice called out. Ross, the security guard, stretches out a hand to stop her. "Where d'you think you're going?"

"Home?"

He waves a plastic bag stuffed with bills in front of her face. "No, you're going to take this down to Wilson."

Winter makes a show of not knowing, biting her lip and furrowing her brow. "Who's Wilson?" Ross rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, but she cuts him off before he can speak, probably to berate her. "I'm new."

"Right," he all but growls under his breath. "You! Rose!"

The other girl hesitates inches away from the door. Winter doesn't need to see her face to know she's debating whether or not to pretend she hadn't heard and keep walking. In the end, she turns to face Ross, not bothering to smile. "Yes?"

"Take the new girl down to give the lottery money to Wilson.

They lock eyes over Ross's shoulder. Winter gives her best _what can you do?_ look and Rose glances at the ceiling in exasperation before indicating for her to follow. "Ever been down to the basement," Rose asks as they enter the lift.

"You mean the place where every horror movie should be filmed? I think I saw Freddie Kruger down there when I was looking for extra hangers, right next to some monstrosity that looked like it was made from the fur of the big bad wolf."

The joke earns her a chuckle. Rose relaxes, earlier annoyance gone. As quick as her temper is to flare, it seems to wane just as easily. It's not an uncommon trait, and Winter absently wonders what it would take to earn a more permanent grudge.

The carriage alights with a ding and the doors sweep open to reveal the basement. Dim lighting and cement walls combine to give the space a tunnel effect. It's musky and damp down here, and everything echoes. Between the buzzing of the ancient lights and the drip of the coolant leaking from the AC system, it's not hard to feel like something is right behind you.

For the first time in a week, Winter's nerves start to calm. Ironically, it's the knowledge that there's an actual threat that eases her. Ifs and maybes have her imagination spirling, inventing enemies and danger. She always works better when she knows there's really something to expect.

"Wilson," Rose calls out, leading the way to the electrician's office. His door is heavy and made of dark wood, blending in with their surroundings. It's easy to miss if not for the sign. "Wilson, we've got the lottery money. Wilson? You there? Look, we can't hang about 'cause they're closing the shop. Wilson!"

"Maybe he's already left," Winter suggests. She knows for a fact that he has after receiving a frantic call about a breaking at his home twenty minutes ago. A kinder person would probably get him out with less undue anxiety, but the fact that he's gone is all that matters to Winter.

Something clatters from further down the corridor. Rose's head instant snaps to face that direction, voice half an octave higher as she calls out, "Hello? Hello Wilson, it's Rose. Hello? Wil-Wilson?"

Winter takes the lead, walking past the fire doors into a large storage room. Old shop dummies are there, dressed in clothes long out of style. They're very good at holding still, but Winter can still hear the high-pitched signal animating the Autons. Too high for any human to hear, it's been ringing in her ears all afternoon since it activated.

"I don't think he's here," she says. Rose is standing a little closer than usual, and she keeps looking around like she expects something to jump out at them any second. Well, Winter muses, she's not entirely wrong. She makes for the other door off to the side, making a show of checking the place out. As she walks, she keeps a silent count of the number of Autons they have to deal with. "We should just leave the money in his office and go."

The door behind them suddenly slides shut. The bang echoes, and Rose jumps at the sound before running to it, trying to no avail to get it to open. "Is that someone mucking about? Who is it?"

She meets Rose halfway into the room, standing in front of her as one of the Autons makes its move. It steps out of the alcove, advancing on them slowly. How slow they move is one of the things they have in their favor. Autons can't run, and they even wobble when they walk if they move too fast. Unfortunately, they're strong, don't feel pain, and are peskily adept at putting themselves back together when dismembered.

Rose chuckles nervously behind her. "You got us, very funny."

They back up as the Auton continues its advance. The others begin to move as well, and soon enough, they've got a mob on their hands. Winter's sword is tucked away in her back pocket, but she doesn't want to use it just yet. The Doctor should be here any minute.

"Right, I've got the joke! Who's idea was this? Was it Derek's? Derek, is this you?"

"I don't think it's a joke," Winter says in lieu of asking her not to panic. Best to just get it out.

Rose picks the perfect moment to trip over some boxes. She stumbles and hits the ground. In an uncanny burst of speed, the lead Auton rushes forth to take advantage of the misstep. Winter's hand wraps around the neck of a stand and she swings out. The blow knocks it back, but there are others to take its place. By the time Rose is back on her feet, one of them has grabbed Winter's makeshift weapon and wrenched it away.

They're out of space to back up. Backs against the wall, Winter thinks that if the Doctor wants to show up, he'd better do it now, or she is going to be the one blowing up the building.

A hand slips into hers, warm and rough with callouses. Part of her is still curious about how that works. Callouses are supposed to be built up over time, and when the Doctor regenerates, everything is supposed to be new. How can he have callouses then?

"Run."

It's a thought she shelves for later. The Doctor pulls her away from the wall. Rose's hand is in his other, and they're running back through the corridors to the lift. Clamoring echos behind them as the hoard of mannequins speed up and chase after them. The door closes on one of the Auton's arms, and the Doctor has to tear it from the socket so the doors can close properly.

"You pulled his arm off," Rose exclaims. The Doctor hands it to her with a grunt.

"They're plastic,"Winter points out. "If it makes you feel better, I don't think it hurts."

Rose pokes at it. When the arm remains still, she fixes her glare on the Doctor. "Very clever, nice trick! Who were they then, students? Is this a student thing or what?"

"Why would they be students," he asks.

She falters for a second, swaying between outrage and confusion. "I don't know…"

"Well, you said it! Why students?"

"'Cause… to get that many people dressed up and being silly… they gotta be students."

He grins as her reasoning. "That makes sense! Well done."

"They aren't students," Winter tells her.

Assuming she's talking to both of them, the Doctor confirms her statement with a "nope," that comes out much lighter than the situation calls for. Rose is staring at him like he's just spoken another language.

As the lift arrives on the ground floor, Winter stays back and let's Rose and the Doctor move on ahead. It's easy to slip out of sight behind the counter, and watch them half-bicker, half-banter. She can't tell if it's cute or nauseating, but it reminds her, somehow, of her sister. The Doctor gives no indication that he remembers rescuing anyone but Rose, and Rose's only sign that she thinks something is missing comes from how she keeps glancing back the way they came.

They part after introductions, and of course, the Doctor has to be dramatic about it. Winter waits until he closes the door on Rose the second time before getting back to her feet. Dusting off her jeans, she follows the Doctor from a reasonable distance as he takes the stairs up. They have to move fast, It won't take the Autons long to realize the lift is out of commission and start taking the long way.

It's cold up on the roof, and windy too. The ground is littered with cigarette butts and trash no one has bothered to clean up. There's less graffiti compared to other buildings in the area, and what's there isn't very artistic. In fact, it's mostly profanity. Down below, the TARDIS is tucked away in an alley across the street.

The relay, a cube with a flashing red light on top, is stashed at the base of one of the satellite dishes. The Doctor wastes no time climbing up on the edge to reach, sticking his bomb to the bottom. Activating it with the sonic, the device starts beeping as it counts down.

And then he just stands there, staring at it with a look in his eyes that says his mind is a million miles away.

The beeping speeds up. Winter curses under her breath and runs out of her hiding spot. Of all the times for him to get distracted, he has to pick the one with a countdown literally hanging over his head. She nabs his hand and pulls him down, yanking him out of his thoughts. The Doctor yelps and nearly falls on his face, but she's already pulling him up and away. "What the— Hey! Who are you? What are you doing up here?"

"Saving your life, apparently," she bites out bitterly. This wasn't part of the plan. What would he have done if she hadn't decided to show up for this, blown himself up?

"But— What?"

She keeps hold of his hand so he has no choice but to run with her unless he wants to be dragged. They nearly trip going down the stairs, and as they run out onto the ground floor, she sees the Autons on their way up. Luckily, the Doctor regains his senses and helps her with the fire door, sealing it behind them so their pursuers are locked in. They run out and manage to clear the street just in time before the building blows.

A wave of heat knocks them both to the ground. The Doctor nearly squashes her with his bigger build. Ash and debris rain down around them. The air is instantly thick with smoke, and grows heavier by the second. Finally, when the last of the rumbling is over, the Doctor flops off of her. They make quite a sight, lying side by side and both gasping for breath as destruction looms in the background.

When she looks over at him, the Doctor is eyeing her intently. A hint of a smile tugs the corners of his lips. "Who are you?"

"I'm the girl who just saved your life," Winter says.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Nope," she agrees, taking in the sight. It doesn't feel as satisfying as she thought it would, but it isn't a complete letdown.

" _Why?_ "

She levees him a look. The Doctor's expression is altogether too serious. Whatever joy she manages to scrape from seeing her former place of employment burn to the ground is sucked right out of the moment from his puzzled face. "Because you're an idiot." Pushing herself up, she brushes off her jeans. It's no use; there's no way the ash and soot are ever coming out.

"Where are you going?"

She nods in the direction of the sirens, growing louder and more shrill as they near. "'Till next time, Doctor." Waving as she walks off, she feels his eyes on her back until she's out of sight and out of mind.

The first thing Winter does when she gets back to the apartment is make for the bathroom. It's practically a stranger who stares back at her through the mirror. Her hair is more black than white with soot, and there are matching dark streaks all over her face and arms like she smudged charcoal everywhere. Her shirt is ripped from when she hit the ground, and she's also bleeding from the fall. None of the scrapes are serious, but they sting under the showerhead as the water beats down on her.

It takes three rinses with shampoo to finally get all the black out and nearly half the bottle of conditioner for her hair to stop feeling course. As she washes her hair, Winter can't help but replay the night's events in her mind again. What was running through the Doctor's mind as he stood beneath the bomb, numb to the danger he was in? She knows this Doctor is in a bad place. Fresh from the Time War, he's not coping well and doesn't really start until he starts traveling with Rose. There's always this heaviness to his future selves, but she's never seen him quite like this before.

Pushing it out of her mind, she towels off and gets ready for bed. There's nothing to be done until tomorrow.

* * *

Winter is packed and ready to go. She has a job lined up for right after she leaves, a milk-run by every definition of the phrase, but also time-sensitive and high-paying. The paper trail of her sub-leasing the flat is all tidied up. It's doubtful that anyone will want to track her through it, but she hasn't made it this far without being careful. All that's left is to see this through, and she's free to go.

The streets are fuller than she likes as she walks down them. There are shoppers and couples and groups of friends out for a good time. She has the hood of her jacket up, but it's less because she's cold and more to blend in. Jackie doesn't notice her, but habits are hard to break. She digs out her phone as she walks out of the police station and Winter falls into step behind her. "I'm just going to do a bit of late night shopping," she tells Rose. "I'll see you later."

Winter follows her to the Queens Arcade, not liking the number of mannequins in the stores around them. Not many notice when they start to move. Those that do are more pleasantly shocked than fearful, assuming it's an attraction or gimmick. It isn't until glass starts breaking that the screams start too.

All around them, the Autons march out of their cages. Some just use their superior physical strength to bash and smash and swat, but most have their handguns out—literally. Four fingers of their hands, everything except the thumb, fold down like a hinge to reveal the muzzle of a low caliber blaster beneath. It isn't hard to keep track of Jackie, even through the chaos. Her shrill is particularly memorable, and it pierces through the other noises like a bullet.

It isn't hard to keep track of Jackie through the chaos. She has a particularly memorable shril that cuts through the other noises like a bullet. Winter sweeping out the legs from under an Auton with it's gun aimed at Jackie's head as she drops her bags and runs out, screaming all the while. She pulls off the arm, sure she looks ridiculous but not really caring.

There are too many Autons for her to take them all on, but she takes out as many as she's able to. Luckily, there's no shortage of ammo around. All she has to do is appropriate a new arm when the one she's using runs out of charge, and she's good to go until that one runs out too. Her sniping skills aren't as honed as, say, her swordsmanship, but she knows her way around a blaster, arm-shaped or not. The ever moving crowd makes things a bit difficult, but at least it's easy to discern between ordinary people and their era-appropriated garbed plastic counterparts.

By the time she makes it outside, Jackie is just ducking behind an overturned car near a wedding shop. The Autons, dressed as a bride, a groom, a flower girl, and a ring bearer, punch through the glass behind her. Before they can step out, Winter takes care of them with the handgun. The awful smell of melting plastic fills the air as she downs more and more, but it doesn't seem to make a dent in their numbers.

Identifying her as a threat, a group of Autons start to converge on Winter. Of course, it's at the exact same time her blaster picks to malfunction. Something internal jams, and the trigger refuses to pull back. She throws it aside and reaches back for her sword, but before she can unsheathe her weapon, one of them gets a lucky shot in. It mostly mises, she'd have a gaping hole where her left kidney is if it didn't, but it still burns like something fierce. Warm blood drips down, staining yet another pair of jeans. That's two the Doctor owes her for on this occasion alone. She keeps a running tally.

The Autons have her surrounded before she can react, arms out and blasters aimed right at her. She's just about to get creative when the mannequins around her start twitching. It looks like some strange, robotic, interpretive dance, and she nearly laughs if not for the way that just breathing sort of hurts right now. All at once, the twitching stops, and the Autons fall to the ground, lifeless once more.

Well, that's anticlimactic.

A phone rings behind her. "Rose," Jackie yells into the speaker. "Rose! Don't go out of the house, it's not safe!"

Winter huffs and slips into a nearby alley so she can teleport out unseen. Her wound isn't too bad—she can patch it up with the first aid kit in her new office before heading to Adipose 4. With one last glance to the London sky, Winter skips out.


End file.
